


The Twilight Years

by Valandhir



Series: The Raven's Blade [3]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dwarf Culture, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 172,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valandhir/pseuds/Valandhir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle for Erebor is over and the Dwarven Exiles are returning to Erebor to rebuild their kingdom, best that they know how with all the changes the road heaped on them. All is not well and strife and contention still are abound, and in the north an ancient dark power whispers in the deeps. Rated M for violence, just to be safe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road leads on

 

  


**Prologue: The Road leads on **

****

Icy wind drove a chilled shower of snow and icicles against Bilbo’s pony, and sent fresh shivers right into his bones. It was the first time in his life that he had voluntarily wrapped something around his feet, to keep them from freezing. His left hand was closed around the pack pony’s reins, making sure it did not try to trudge away and they had to search for it. Not that he was complaining, their journey had proceeded well so far. From Erebor they had turned west to cross Mirkwood again. Gandalf and Beorn had been with them on the first leg of their journey, as the wizard wished to visit the Elven King Thranduil in his halls to ensure the Easterling spy from Dol Guldur had not done other harm. None of the other three had felt any wish to enter the halls of Mirkwood again, Kili in particular held no wish to get ever that close or personal with the woodland elves again. And Beorn while holding no grudges towards the elves had no dealings with them either and so they had bidden their goodbyes to the wizard and ridden west, taking the familiar road again. Only this time they knew what path to take and their journey was calmer, with the impressive carnage in Dol Guldur it was safer to cross the forest on the old dwarven road. Beorn’s company probably had been the other reason for their unhindered passage. With their horses they had been much swifter too.

 

Still they all breathed easier when Mirkwood lay behind them and they approached the great river. Beorn had offered them shelter for the winter; the mighty shapeshifter had proven a wonderful travelling companion. Dwalin, Bilbo and Kili had talked it through during their first evening at his house and decided to press on. It was already December but both dwarves had crossed the mountains in winter before. It was the hardest part of their journey so far. Snow fell heavily and the icy winds blew mercilessly from the north, but they made good progress.

 

“Bilbo!” Kili who had been clearing away a blockade of snow came trudging back to him to guide the pony through the gap. The young dwarf had sometimes had his withdrawn moments during their journey, but never allowed the sadness to linger. He took the reins of Bilbo’s pony. “You have to see this,” he said, with a small smile.

 

While he was capable of guiding the pony himself, Bilbo had learned quite well to ride by now, he allowed Kili to lead the animal, it was such a small thing really, but it showed Bilbo how strongly he had become ‘their Hobbit’, as they called him affectionately. When they passed the snow barrier to where Dwalin stood with the horses, Bilbo’s eyes widened. They stood at the very escarpment of the Mountains, seeing the valley of Imladris lie deep down below. The snowfall had ceased and the winter sun graced the early afternoon skies, in the clear cold air they could see far across Eriador, And against the horizon they saw vague darker shadows, the Ered Luin greeting them from afar. Bilbo squinted as he looked towards the far away range. Somewhere there, far under the winter skies lay the Shire, Hobbiton and Bag-End.

 

“We’re home,” Kili had spoken, a genuine smile shone on his face when he saw the familiar land before them. “Come, let us get down the pass before nightfall.”

 

“You know that this way will lead us right into Rivendell,” Dwalin said, as they made their way through the snow down the narrow passageway.

 

“I promised Elrohir I would deliver the letter to his father and brother,” Kili said. “They must be worried by now, with all the Orcs heading east, they had reason to.” The Elven Prince was still at Erebor, he was still needed as a healer, as were many of his riders and he had been loath to leave before Thorin was not truly recovered. Kili knew that Elrohir had fought hard to rescue Thorin when he had lain near death after the battle.

 

They came around the sharp turn where the way became very narrow and carefully guided their mounts down. “I admit, I would prefer to camp at the Watch again, rest, sleep, just warriors for company…” Kili went on, once he had firm ground under his boots again.

 

“But this will not be possible,” an Elven voice interrupted him, coming from the pathway further down, where a single elven rider stood, he must have come from the other path coming down the mountains.

 

“Elladan!” Kili hurried down the rest of the way to greet the elven Prince. “It is good to see you, albeit I had hardly expected to meet you before reaching the valley.”

 

Elladan had dismounted when he greeted Kili. “I have been riding up to the mountain roads often since the Orcs headed east,” he said honestly. “Kili… do you have any news of my brother?” There was worry in his voice, a worry Kili could understand all too well. He would be the same with Fili, only that he could sense his brother inside the bond, knowing he was alright.

 

“I do,” he replied. “When we left Erebor Elrohir was fine and healthy, he did not suffer any injuries during the battle but his help after saved many lives.”

 

“Battle? Against the Dragon?” Elladan asked, then raised his hand to stop the answer. “No, do not tell me now; knowing he is well will have to do for the moment. My father will wish to hear of all this as well, and you would have to tell and re-tell it all several times.”

 

“Oh, I would not mind repeating the ballads,” Kili said as they went on and into the valley of Imladris. “His charge on Raven Hill should earn him more than a few songs. I do not dare imagine what would have happened had the Orcs taken that position.”

 

“So, a battle against the Orcs. Smaug is dead as well, I assume?” Elladan asked back, wondering what adventures and battles his brother had been involved in.

 

“Smaug is dead,” Kili confirmed curtly. “The Orcs came after, and your brother came to our aid several times during our journey…”

 

Elladan noticed how quickly Kili skipped over the dead dragon and went back to Elrohir’s heroics, he knew the young dwarf well enough to read between the lines. But he did not ask in that moment, but guided them towards his father’s house.

 

TRB

 

They had been given the chance to bathe, change and rest a little, before being granted an audience with Lord Elrond. Kili was glad for that, they all three were cold and had been on the road for far too long. The chance to wash and make themselves presentable was more than welcome, especially before a formal audience. After a long bath he had combed out his long mane of hair, he then swiftly went to braiding it. One braid was nearly unchanged, indicating he had one living brother of blood and one dead soul brother, the other braid was a simple necessity, indicating his rank among dwarves. He had never worn that one before, but Thorin had insisted he begin when in formal situations, though he’d prefer it if he always wore it.

 

When they were led to the audience hall, Kili was grateful that it would be in a closed hall, rather than one of the many open bowers Rivendell had. Elrond awaited them with a few Elves of his court, none that Kili had ever even seen before.  Elladan was there as well, standing to his father’s right. Kili bowed as was proper, he had been taught the politeness that that needed to be observed. When he handed the letter to Lord Elrond, the elf took it but did not read it. “You have my thanks for bringing me news of my son,” he said. “But I would wish to hear more of him and what befell him on his journey.” He gestured to the side, where Kili was invited to sit on a chair, with Dwalin standing behind him. Bilbo took the place to Kili’s side, in the chainmail and cloak he wore; he did not look out of place at all.

 

“The first time your son came to our aid, was when we were set upon by Mirkwood elves on the Men-i-Naugrim,” Kili began speaking, relating the story of Elrohir’s deeds as much as he knew them. There was a lot to tell, from their rescue, over the battle against the tree to the events at Erebor. Mindful that these were the halls of Elrohir’s father, he kept the story on the elven Prince and his deeds, and if he embellished a little here and there, he did so very skillfully. When it came to the battle itself, he did ask Dwalin to tell of the charge at Raven Hill, as Kili had not been conscious to witness most of it.

 

Dwalin acquiesced with the air of a man who did know how to tell a good warstory, and a good story it truly was. While Dwalin was not much of a talker most of the time he knew how to tell a war story well, how to keep his listeners enthralled with a story of fighting and blood and heroic charges.

 

Elrond’s eyebrows had arched slightly, he had heard many a tale of war but he had hardly expected at being regaled with stories about son’s heroics for most of the evening and his dwarven guests were gleefully adding one story after the other. The Elven Lord was well aware that their own perceptions might play a role in this as well, the Dwarven King that would not expect his son to be a great warrior had yet to be born and the young dwarven Prince here was very aware that he was sitting with Elrohir’s father. “You have not mentioned the fate of the dragon yet,” Elrond observed, steering the topic to something other than Elrohir’s numerous brave fights.

 

“Dead,” Kili replied directly. “Bilbo here snatched something very precious from the hoard and we used it to lure the beast into the ruins of Dale, where it was eventually shot during the fight.”

 

The Elven Lord was surprised at the very curt summary of events, he would have expected the dwarves to brag about it, but it seemed like the young Prince was nearly shy about the topic. Before he could inquire, Kili spoke again. “I am aware you wonder why Prince Elrohir did not return home with us,” he said. “But there still were a nuber pf wounded in need of his aid. He saved many lives after the battle; some of our best would have died if not for him.” Their conversation turned to other topics and the audience ended late in the night.

 

TRB

 

Elladan accompanied Kili back to their quarters, the invitation to stay until the worst snows were over had of course been extended and politely accepted. “It was you who shot the dragon.” he stated, while they walked.

 

Surprised Kili looked up. “How do you know?” he asked, his voice tensing slightly. “I did not mention any details of the fight.”

 

“It was what you did not say, that gave you away,” Elladan explained, “you did not name a dragonslayer and you evaded the topic. I am surprised though, the Kili I got to know a few years ago would have bragged about such a feat… rightfully so; few can claim such a brave deed.”

 

Kili stopped beside one of the oriel windows of the hallway. “That boy grew up, Elladan and he learned what true courage is…”

 

The elven Prince stood beside him, he could sense much had changed in his younger friend, like that one journey had been years instead of mere months. “What happened?” he asked gently, feeling that Kili’s soul was full.

 

“I… I saw a friend who… who had taken on a task, he left everything behind to do this, everything, life, family… his place, because he deemed this mission worthy. In his eyes it needed to be done and he was the only one who could do it. He went through all this, never even speaking of it, he fought and bled, was a friend like none other and… in the end, when he had accomplished his task… when he had _won_ , when he should have had the chance to at least rejoice… he gave his life, Elladan. Boromir gave his life so Fili and I would survive, he died smiling, victorious… no regrets and absolutely no fears. That’s courage, to do what is needful, no matter if anyone will ever see and know what you accomplished, to what needs to be done without flinching, without backing out… that’s the real courage. Facing a dragon is easy in comparison.” Kili’s dark eyes reflected in the clear glass of the window, and he shook his head. “If I can learn half that courage, maybe I’ll have been worth it.”

 

“To him you were worth it, right there and then, Kili, never forget that,” Elladan pointed out sagely, “may I ask you something else?”

 

Kili straightened up, pushing the other thoughts aside. “Of course, what do you wish to know?”

 

“The Lord of the Dragon Forge,” Elladan began, “you have been skirting the topic, and you were very careful with what you said. But I could not help to notice a few remarkable details that made me wonder…”

 

“Elladan, his presence caused tension with the Woodland Elves already, and while I do not care if they all hide shivering in the depths of their woods, I do not wish to cause further strife through hasty words.”

 

The elf smiled. “You truly have grown, my friend.” He said warmly. “But you need not fear, if he is the one I would guess from your words, my father may not be so unhappy to hear of his survival.”

 

“Would he?” Kili asked. “I mean… I heard a lot of ancient Ballads from you that winter eight years ago and… you and his family would have a blood feud if I understood the story about Sirion correctly.”

 

“So it is him!” Elladan exclaimed. “Kili, Elves do not conduct extensive blood feuds like dwarves may, and… the story of Sirion Havens is far more complex than the songs will ever let on.”

 

TRB

 

The chance to rest for days was a very welcome one and Kili was grateful for it. With the waning elven year the snows were setting in in earnest now and there was hardly a morning where there was no new snow on the paths and walkways of Rivendell. Kili trudged along the winding pathway between the beautiful elven houses, after a few days of rest he needed to stretch his legs. He saw a movement to his side as a boy came skittering downhill, nearly falling through his own momentum. Reaching out Kili grasped the boy and as he steadied himself. “Careful there, you don’t want to roll all the way down to the Bruinen.”

 

“Thank you,” the boy replied, he was panting form running hard. “But I tried to catch up with you. How is it you can walk so fast in this snow?”

 

He was a human boy, whom Kili would estimate of about ten human years. “It’s a secret,” he teased the boy a little. “Why were you looking for me, young scout?”

 

“My name is Estel,” the boy introduced himself. “When you passed through here last spring a warrior was with you. His name was Boromir and I was wondering if he might be with you again. He gave me a sword and… I wanted to show him how much I learned, I have been practicing all summer.”

 

So Boromir had met this young one, Kili realized, seeing the eager face of the child. “Boromir is not with us, Estel.” He said. “But he would be happy to hear you are practicing a lot.”

 

Estel’s face fell, his eyes still on Kili’s. “Something happened to him, didn’t it?” he asked softly, reading Kili’s mien with an astonishing accuracy.

 

Gently Kili touched Estel’s shoulders with his strong hands. “There was a battle, last autumn, and… he fell. He was very brave, he saved my life.” The full story would be too complicated for a child to hear, but knowing that his warrior friend had gone bravely might be enough. Kili too had heard his share of such abbreviated stories amongst all those whose parents rested by the cold shores of Mirrormere.

 

Estel ducked his head, his lip quivering, he had not known Boromir well enough to cry but he was clearly crushed to hear the warrior he had idolized was not coming back. Kili did not have the heart to send the child home like that. “You could show me what you have learned,” he suggested.

 

The youngster looked at him. “But why would you want to know?”

 

Kili could not resist to ruffle Estel’s dark hair. “Because Boromir was my friend too, young one, and that means I will look out for his friends. It is something warriors do; we always look out for the friends of those comrades who did not make it home.” It was a dwarven way as it had grown among the exiles; you looked out for the friends of those who died, because friendships often replaced the families that had not survived the journey.

 

“Does that make you my friend too?” Estel asked in a small voice.

 

“Yes, it makes us friends and friends know each other’s name, my name is Kili.” Kili smiled a little, he could see the boy straightening up a bit, trying to stand taller, at that age boys would begin to do that and try to mirror the warriors around them.

 

“Then… will you come and look what I learned?” Estel asked. “I have been practicing so much, mother does not like it at all, but Elladan has been showing me a few forms. I never get the spin right, though.”

 

“Lead the way, young one,” Kili said, following the boy through the high snows to a house by the side of the valley.

 

TRB

 

Gilraen walked home in the cold winter dawn, she had been called to Lady Arwen and it had gotten much later than she had expected. She hoped she would not have to go back to Elrond’s house and enlist Elladan’s help to find Estel. When she approached her home in the valley she noticed at once that a fire had been lit in the brazier in the yard, sending a warm light into the night. How was this possible, she had not had any wood stacked outside and it was too cold to light frozen wood anyway. Her thoughts went from the fire to the scene in the yard where she saw her son spar with someone else. She could hear a deep voice call out commands while the bout went on. “Step back… left block… good!... stronger!”

 

The Dunedain woman stopped where she stood and took in the scene. Estel’s sparring partner was not much taller than the boy was, but broader in shoulders and build and his voice was a deep resonating baritone. A dwarf, then. Gilraen had lived long enough in Eriador to know their kind, which would also explain the fire. Many dwarves could make fire from nothing and keep it burning as long as they wished. She walked closer and saw the dwarf swiftly circle Estel, forcing the boy to anticipate his attacks, suddenly Estel spun around his blade coming about and precisely parried an attack.

 

“You did it! Good!” The dwarf praised and Estel laughed happily.

 

“It never worked before, Kili!” He was so exhilarated that he hugged the dwarf.

 

Gilraen walked into the yard, a little worried but she saw the dwarf smile and ruffle Estel’s hair. “We will have to practice that until you do it without even trying.” He said. “But I believe your mother is here and she will wish for your company now. Never be rude to a Lady.”

 

Estel turned to greet his mother. “Mother, this is Kili…” he began explaining.

 

“I know,” Gilraen said. “I have seen him before,” it was true, albeit she had not recognized him right away. “You used to come to Wildfane Heights with your brother to do smithy work,” she explained towards the dwarf. He had changed, looking more solemn and more like a warrior now, the last fourteen years had changed him a lot obviously.

 

Kili frowned, trying to remember her face. “Dirhaél’s daughter, am I right?” he asked after a moment. “Forgive me, my Lady, I do not think I ever heard your name, but only spoke to your father and your betrothed.”

 

Sadness touched Gilraen’s heart, remembering her Arathorn, even if this particular memory was not one of his prouder moments. “My name is Gilraen,” she introduced herself.

 

Kili bowed. “Kili, at your service.”

 

The woman hid a smile, the gesture woke memories of happier days in Eriador, of days on the summer markets, where the wandering dwarves and other strangers passed by. “Is your brother with you too?” she asked. “I recall you never showing up alone, along with… who was he? Tall, dark-ish, very gruff…”

 

“My father,” Kili chuckled at the description. “No, they both are still at Erebor, while my comrades and I are on our way west to bring news to our people in Ered Luin.”

 

Estel peered to Kili. “You have to tell us, Kili. Did your King really fight a dragon? And that battle what happened there… couldn’t you stay and tell us?”

 

“Your mother will wish for some time with you, Estel” Kili reminded the eager boy. “If she permits I can come by tomorrow and tell you while we practice.”

 

Gilraen shook her head. “No, Kili, you are very welcome to our home,” she said. “Estel has been wondering and worrying a lot about the dragon heroes ever since the summer.”

 

It was a long evening, one that Gilraen was content to sit and watch most of the time. Kili and Estel sat in front of the fire and Kili was telling of his journey, stories full of danger, adventure and heroic deeds. Gilraen had grown up a Dunedain, her father and brothers Rangers, her dead husband a Ranger, she knew what life was like out there and she could tell that Kili certainly edited those stories, keeping out the darker and nastier aspects. His descriptions of the Goblin King were funny, he made fun of the Great Goblin’s fear of Orcrist, colourfully told of their flight through burning Goblin Town, but she could tell there were things he did not say, she had seen that expression in the eyes of her family too often to now know what it meant.

 

Eventually Estel was so tired, not even the best tale could keep him awake and Gilraen sent him to bed, her heart heavy. Estel wanted to be a warrior, to fight… and she wished to protect him, she had seen enough of the world out there to know what would lie in store for him.

 

“If you’d rather I did not come back to teach him, you need only to say so.” Kili spoke up; he had risen, ready to leave. “He will be disappointed but grow out of it, as time passes.”

 

“Is it that obvious?” Gilraen asked.

 

“He mentioned his mother not being happy with the gift of a sword and… there is the worry in your eyes. My… mother, Dis, she had the same expression when my father began to take us along on his journeys. And she was a dwarf woman who fought with axe and hammer better than us at times.” The way Kili spoke, his voice warm and gentle, told Gilraen he understood her fears at least partially.

 

“You have lived out there, Kili,” she replied, walking to the window, looking out into the icy winter night. “You have lived on the roads, always wandering, always in danger and always on the move… Orcs, Trolls and Goblins on top of all that… and I fear for my son. I want him to be safe, but once he leaves this place, he will be hunted. And then… then I see him with a sword, and remember that the sword did not save my husband…” She bowed her head. “You must think me a fool.”

 

“No,” Kili had stepped beside her. “You worry for your only child; you want to protect him that is not foolishness. The world out there is rough… but the better he knows how to fend for himself, the better his chances when danger draws close.”

 

Gilraen sighed. “How did you live with it? The dangers… the scorn? Your father can’t have wanted that kind of life for you.” She looked at him and realized that what she had said echoed the sentiment many of her people had for the wandering dwarves, that the life they lived was shameful, and he had heard it. “I… I am sorry; I should not have said that.”

 

“You said what you think, no one can fault you for that,” Kili replied, his black eyes still focused on the nightly landscape, like it was a place more familiar than the house and the fireplace. “While I know that my father wanted a better life for us… he gave us all we needed, he was our rock and anchor on the wanderings and all the home we needed.” He smiled warmly. “A home is not a roof or a place, it is with the people we belong to, and with a few good comrades no road, no danger is quite as bad.” He looked up, coming back from wherever his mind had gone. “Allow your son to be strong, Gilraen, show him not your fears, but your trust in him… and he will prove stronger than you can imagine.”

 

“Estel will be glad if you come back to teach him,” Gilraen said. “if… if it does not take too much of your time.”

 

“We are stuck here until the worst snows are over,” Kili said with a smile, “and I can’t go and work in the forge because it would offend our gracious host, I can’t even brush my own horse for the same reason… I am glad to having something to do. Usually I am the younger brother… it is nice to be the big one for a change.”

 

In that smile Gilraen could see a younger expression, one more matched with his true age, he was but a dwarven youth, in human years he would not be twenty yet. And he had already been sent to battle… she could not keep the heavy thoughts away. “Then I will be glad to see you here more often.”

 

TRB

 

Elrond sat in his study alone, the letter Elrohir had written before him, it was not very long, like so often Elrohir’s words were short, direct and to the point. His missive held more than a few acid comments on Thranduil and his _tree hugging_ , Elrond frowned at those. He would have to have a long talk with his son when he returned. Even with the anger his son might feel, he should extend more mercy towards one of their own who had been badly wronged by the shadow.

 

 _With the many wounded and Thorin’s own injuries I will have to remain here until at least spring,_ the letter went on. _The men of Dale have suffered grievous losses and who knows what kinds of troubles will come out of the wilderness with all that has happened this year?_

Elrond had to smother a smile, his son enjoyed his adventuring more than an elf should and while he of course would find excellent reasons to stay away, he did not exactly hide he was happy to pursue dangers far away from his father’s house. However, Elrond could see that the positive relations his son might build with the dwarves of Erebor would be beneficial to the Elves in the long run, especially if Mirkwood and Erebor were not likely to make peace anytime soon. He looked back on the letter and read on.

 

_What worries me to no little amount is the prophecy grandmother gave me before we parted, she spoke of a doom in the North and of pain it would bring. So far, I have only encountered a wayward elf king and the armies of a pale orc, and unfriendly as they might have been, they do not warrant the word of doom from Lady Galadriel’s mouth. Do you have any deeper insight in this? My heart is uneasy, but my mind cannot find the reason for my unrest._

Letting the letter sink to the table, Elrond touched it gently with his hand, it held the echoes of his son’s presence keenly, vibrant and alive Elrohir had left an echo of his song on these letters. Closing his eyes Elrond followed that song, the echo he could feel.

 

_“I am sending you into danger, Inyo,” Galadriel’s voice whispered. “The world is shifting under our very feet, a whirlwind has touched us and the leaves are ripped into the maelstrom, and I do not see the way out. But taking your brother with you echoes disaster… danger. Elrohir, if you truly chose this path… it will bring you pain, danger… and maybe a banishment that will weigh on you like a burden.”_

Before Elrond’s inner eye pictures whirled like a radiant wheel… _Elrohir fighting in a wide hall... moving between someone and an attacker… a number of corpses in a hallway… ‘I may not like him but they took his son’, a gruff voice ‘and I owe him this obligation. Don’t you dare offer your help again, elf.’… dark figures crowding tunnels somewhere in the dark… fire searing from a chasm… ‘careful, no one has been in these deeps for generations’ the gruff voice again… Elrohir standing with his sword in hand ready to fight an elf, and Elrond felt a heartwrenching pain, sensing the choice crushing down like a hammer. …_ The pictures whirled stronger, he was getting lost _… Elrohir standing at a broken fortress wall fighting legions Orcs among warriors of men… a field of blood… his son fighting… no regrets…_

Steadying himself against the table Elrond tried to not feel the pain of these visions, some of them stretching years and years into the future, he could not place them correctly, they were layered with a whirling, searing darkness. But the path… it had nearly been chosen. What time Elrohir had to turn away from this path was waning quickly. The choice had been half made when he went East, Galadriel had been right; she had sent him into danger. And she had seen true, something had shifted, changed… irrevocably. But he did not understand it yet, and yet he would search for the answers.

 

TBR

 

Bilbo could not believe he had voluntarily gone out into that cold weather, only a year ago he would have refused to set one toe out of the door while snow was high. He twisted his toes against the warmth of the fire in the fireplace. But he had exactly done that, asking Kili to teach him the way the sword as well. He limited it to two hours each day, but that meant being out in a cold yard, only warmed by a blazing brazier that kept the air just warm enough for them to not have icicles in their lungs by the end of the lesson.

 

The training was a choice Bilbo had not made out of sheer boredom, he was very happy to pass his hours in the great library of Elrond’s house. But the memory of the battle had not left him, he had fought best that he knew how, and the overwhelming feeling of having to protect his friends had held him up during those hours, but… he still wished to better be able to defend himself. Dwalin had been right, when he had said that the wilds were not place for people who could neither fight nor fend for themselves.

 

The thought of that brought Bilbo out of his comfy chair; he could not lounge about all day. Instead he went back to the library. The vast airy hall was his favorite place in all of Rivendell. There were so many books here, so much knowledge carefully stored and preserved. At first he had simply come here for a desk and some quiet while he began his journal, writing down all that had happened on his journey. He somehow wanted to preserve this last year, horrifying, frightening and amazing as it had been, he never wanted to forget it and he wanted to somehow immortalize those of their friends that had died. While he began his work he had found that the library was a wonderful place to research and find the bits and pieces of the story he was missing, details he only knew vaguely. For example he had noticed the seal on Thorin’s axe many times but he had not memorized it. The elven librarian had smiled when asked and led him to a book about Durin’s House, holding a wealth of knowledge that helped Bilbo to understand many details of their journey, and of his friends.

 

Bilbo tiptoed into the library and found the desk he was usually working on, the one opposite, standing in the same oriel was taken that day by Prince Elladan. Sitting down on the cushions on the chair, Bilbo opened the book; it was a sturdy, leather bound tome that would last a long time in any library. While he had begun writing he had always begun to add sketches and drawings to the story, preserving the faces of his friends, the places they had seen. “Still working on your journal?” Elladan asked, looking up from the longer missive he had been writing.

 

“Trying to remember the details on the map, as a matter of fact,” Bilbo replied. “I would like to see it added to this chronicle. But… I only saw it a few times and did not pay the attention I should have.” Discontentedly he looked at his own sketches of the precious map.

 

Elladan tilted his head to look at the sketch. “I saw the map too, when Thorin showed it to me,” he observed, “if you wish I can draw a copy of it.”

 

“I would be most grateful,” Bilbo replied, surprised the elf would remember the map from seeing it only that one time. Elladan inclined his head, taking a clean roll of parchment, thinking for a moment before he began to draw, slowly producing a copy of the map.

 

Bilbo watched him for a while, a thought coming to him. He had sketches and drawings of most of the dwarves by now, they were very lively in his mind, but he still needed a drawing of Elrohir and found it difficult to draw the elf from memory, but Elladan was identical to Elrohir except maybe being less fierce. While the Prince worked on the map, Bilbo studied him, beginning to draw a portrait of him. He smiled, it would be a wonderful book in the end.

 

 

** Author’s Notes **

****

And here we are, ready to start the new journey. Welcome back to all of you who have followed The Raven’s Blade faithfully so far. This will be a bit of a strange story, because it has to cover a lot of things in a long timeframe and I hope you will enjoy it. :D

 

Big thanks go to the amazing Harrylee94, who is putting up with my crazy ideas, writing sprees and is still writing wonderful stories of her own. Harrylee94 you are a marvel! You’ll get an extra big Thorin cuddle cushion just for yourself. ;).

 

Like always, comments, speculations and critique are welcome here!

 

Thanks to you all who have been sharing this journey so far.

 

Valandhir


	2. No matter what scars you bear

The new season was coming, the reluctant shy spring of Eriador, melting the snows and opening the roads again. Kili was glad to be back in the saddle, he had contemplated continuing their journey by the end of January, but the storms had still been too fierce, and thus they had been forced to wait until late February came around to end the long reign of the Lord of Winter. But now the wind had turned bringing a warmer gale from the south-west and the roads were open once more. Kili’s heart soared when they rode along the ancient road leading west towards the far away sea. Spring had come to Eriador, the wild geese were returning and while the chill of the past winter still hung in the air, it would soon fade. He was home. How often had his brother and he taken to the road again on days like these?

 

The horses made short work of the long miles and Elderberry Hill came in sight at dawn. “Do we want to camp here?” Bilbo asked a bit apprehensively. Behind the barren trees they could see the statues of the three trolls, unchanged from the day they had left there.

 

“Those three won’t be putting any sage on us this time,” Kili replied with a wink. “and we will check their den before sundown. We have business down here either way, and I want it checked for denizens before we camp.”

 

Dwalin dismounted his horse and shouldered Stormcaller. “Let’s have a look,” he said. “we can get the shovels later.”

 

Bilbo secured the horses close to the old barn. “Shovels? You don’t want to dig up that troll hoard again?” he asked. “Kili, it was quite clear that you were _disgusted_ when Glóin had it buried in the first place and Dwalin, you did not like it either, but Thorin ordered you to be still.”

 

“Aye, I did not like it,” Dwalin said. “’twas not the hoard that I disliked, I didn’t like their greed. They lost their heads when they found the gold. That’s not good, not for your mind, not for your heart either.”

 

Again the Halfling was surprised about Dwalin, the mighty warrior often came across as gruff, silent and a bit simple, but Bilbo learned that beneath that exterior lay a far more observant mind than Dwalin usually showed. And Dwalin… he would have been witness to King Thrór’s love of gold. Bilbo had not been privy to the pivotal events in the Throne Hall when Fili nearly had died, but he had heard bits and pieces in conversation of those who had been close. How much had Dwalin worried for his friend, his king, ever since this journey began? “Still, I do not see why we should dig it up.” He said. “You got Erebor back and all that ridiculous treasure. I mean, you will have to sweep up the gold into barrels for weeks, the way the halls looked…”

 

Kili chuckled. “Thorin’s orders,” he said. “it seems that our burglar made an excellent argument why he could not take any reward beyond some small things – the way to transport it home was too long.” His eyes pointed to the pack pony with the two small chests. Bilbo’s reluctance to accept any reward had been awkward to the whole company. “So Thorin ordered us to retrieve the troll hoard to augment things a little.”

 

Bilbo sighed silently, seeing he was going to lose that argument. He had tried to explain to the dwarves that he was a well off Hobbit already that his mother’s legacy to him had not been in coin but in numerous deeds for pieces of land and fields that now were leased to various Hobbits, generating a steady income. He did not need a reward in coin, but even dwarves who were fairly enlightened when it came to gold, like Kili, seemed to believe that a proper reward involved a good pile of coin and some jewels on top of it.

 

Dwalin had squatted down at the cave entrance and peered inside. The sun was setting, but it shone down the tunnel. “Empty,” the warrior said in a low voice, “no movement inside and no fresh tracks, I think we were the last to enter this den.”

 

Kili lit two torches, handing one to Bilbo. “These trolls were hunting in these parts for at least a few years, Dwalin. I am not surprised no one would come close to these woods. “

 

Again they descended down into the cave, Kili keeping the torch low, to see any tracks that might be there, but nothing indicated that someone had entered the cave since the dwarves left. Carefully the young dwarf looked around, making sure there was really nothing in here than them. He then put the torch in the rack where Thorin had stuck his back when they had been there the last time. “I still wonder how the swords came to be here,” he said thoughtfully. “the elven blades.”

 

Dwalin shrugged. “Angmar loot, most likely. This hoard is old Kili, and who knows what elf was killed back then?”

 

“It does not add up, Dwalin,” Kili shook his head. Maybe it was this place, horrid that it was, that set him of to think. “The Goblin king, he remembered Orcrist, ‘the blade that cut a thousand necks’, he knew the sword from sight, and he knew Glamdring too. But… the Elves, Elrohir and Elladan, they were surprised to see these swords. If any elf had still been wielding them during the Angmar war, they would have known.” He paced back and forth. “At least, if it was any elf they knew… and they would know the elves who fought in that conflict, wouldn’t they? So… who had those swords? Who wielded them to such effect that the Goblins in the Mountains still fear the ‘blades bright as sunlight’ and still the elves would not know of them? It does not make any sense.”

 

Bilbo frowned, why did riddles always pop up in some dank dens under the mountains? “So you are saying these swords were used until sometime in the last centuries, and the elves should have known the carriers, only they didn’t?” He scratched his chin. “Maybe they did not know the wielders of the blades? Or whoever had them kept it secret?”

 

Kili nodded at Bilbo. “It’s possible. But… let’s get to work, we can ponder riddles in nicer places than this den.” They set to work, digging up the chest again, and packing away the gold that still lay on the cave floor.

 

“Kili,” Bilbo said when they were finished. “Gandalf found my sword in this place as well. I first thought it belonged to either Orcrist or Glamdring but, neither of them had a scabbard for a dagger.”

 

“The shape is wrong too,” Kili said, “usually dagger and sword will match in shape, if they were made as a pair. Your blade was definitely made by the ancient elves, that much is evident in its qualities. Do you know where Gandalf found it?”

 

“No, he came out last,” Bilbo replied, looking around the cave, wondering. When Thorin had ordered them to get out, they had left and Gandalf had followed behind. Bilbo tried to imagine the old wizard walking towards the exit. Where had he stopped? Where had he noticed something that would make him take a closer look? His eyes went along the cave floor until he saw the pile of leaves and dirt near the wall.

 

He went closer, planting the torch beside the place on the floor and took a closer look. He could tell that someone had been rummaging in this pile of leaves, dirt and twigs. Taking a branch from the floor Bilbo began to pull the pile apart. At first it yielded only dirt and a few scraps of leather, but then his branch made contact with something hard and metallic. He pulled a bit more and brushed away the rotten leaves to reveal the long hilt of a sword. “Kili, Dwalin!” he called out.

 

Both dwarves joined him swiftly, helping to remove the dirt and rotten twigs to reveal the blade fully. Bilbo gasped, it really looked like a larger version of Sting, only that the guard was longer and more ornate, but otherwise they were very similar, especially the leaf shape of the blade, only that with the long version the blade looked more slender in relation to the hilt. “You were right, Kili, these look like a matched set indeed.” Bilbo exclaimed. “Do you think it is from Gondolin as well?”

 

The dwarf picked up the dirty sheath of the sword, lifting the whole weapon up. “Elven make, no doubt, and made for a tall fighter, if you ask me.” He observed, studying the hilt and guard. “Strange, it has no bladesmith’s seal, nor other mark to indicate the maker, only a star engraved on both sides where the guard and the hilt touch. He drew the blade from the sheath to look for inscriptions, finding a long band of tengwar writing. “That will need an Elf to translate,” he said with a sigh. “maybe when we come through Rivendell on our way back someone can identify this blade.”

 

“It still looks in perfect shape, much like my sword,” Bilbo pointed out. “you should keep it.”

 

Kili shook his head. “I am an archer, not so much of a two-handed fighter, and this sword is a nearly a greatsword in my hands. Besides, who knows to whom it belonged?”

 

Bilbo winked at him with a sly smile. “Gandalf said to your father that you could not wish for a better blade, regarding Orcrist. And I think this applies here too. It is a wonderful sword, fitting for a Prince.” Their eyes met and Bilbo crossed his arms in front of his chest, a posture he had often seen with the Dwarves. “You keep the sword and I’ll consider keeping the awful loot you dug up here.” He offered.

 

Suddenly Kili laughed. “You really have become stubborn Hobbit, my friend.”

 

Amused Bilbo joined his laughter. “I learned from the best.”

 

TRB

 

Somewhere under the star's wide dome

the wind and the world became my home,

drawn to the land of the woods and weave

finding the road again, I could never leave.

 

By now Bilbo knew the song well enough to sing along, as they rode. It was one of Kili’s favorites, and he could sing it with such intensity, that Bilbo could truly feel the happiness from it, born of stone he may be but a part of Kili’s soul belonged to the wandering winds. It was a side to Kili that he had come to observe as they journeyed back west.

 

They finished the song early as they had reached the gates of Bree. In the middle of the day the doors were wide open and the guard was lazily watching some traders file into the village. One of them looked up at the riders. “Winds and Wanderers!” one of the exclaimed. “Hiron’s day will brighter after all. Kili, it is good to see you come this way. You did not bring your brother by chance, or better even, your Uncle?”

 

“No, Erion,” Kili replied. “but Dwalin is with me, in case we need to knock some sense into your thick skulls. What ails the esteemed Hiron so much he should be glad to see me?” The man mentioned was something of the Head bounder of Bree-Land and he usually liked wandering dwarves as much as any other Shirriff would. Kili had found himself twice at the receiving end of his justice, but would also give it to the man that he was fairer than people in other villages were.

 

“My problem is a noisy one,” a gravelly voice interrupted them as Hiron joined them by the gate. He was not a very tall man with neatly cut brown hair and a perpetually sour mien. “There is this ancient drunk dwarf in my cells at the guard house, singing battle songs, he won’t shut up nor sober up, but he has to do one or the other ere I go insane.”

 

“And we truly can’t have that, can we, Hiron?” Kili asked, humor sparkling in his dark eyes. “What did you put him in for?”

 

“Drunken misconduct and making a nuisance of himself; sat on the stairs of the Prancing Pony all day and night singing…”

 

“Battle ballads,” Kili finished the line. “Very well, Hiron, show me your friend in the cell and I will see what I can do for your sanity.”

 

“He is not my friend,” Hiron grumbled grimly, as he led them into the village and to the guard house. “What is going on with your people of late, Kili?” he asked as they walked, “They have been on edge all winter, some were getting really antsy. Bladvila, that warrior escorting your merchant caravans, beat William Oldoak within an inch of his life, when William said that the way your Uncle rode out, he’s going to find a bad end. And his mistress of carts, Brea, threatened that rogue Nori with some really evil things when he spoke badly of your Uncle last November. I may understand her, the lass was always sweet on the grumpy blacksmith…”

 

Kili shot Hiron a glare to silence him. “Nonsense,” he said firmly. “Brea is a loyal friend and does take badly to hearing slurs, Bladvila is not much different in that regard. If some people would speculate less on our business, you would have fewer bruises to worry about.” They entered the guard house and heard a loud voice ring up from the cellars.

 

Tairag azir nid guryet…

 

From the fire of a dragon

And from the shadow of the deeps

Rose a warrior, a man with an axe

On the day we marched

Into Azanulbizar.

The voice was strong, well-practiced but free of slurs or mistakes. “If he is as drunk as he pretends to be, I’ll grow fur on my feet.” Kili observed, before actually taking up the tune.

 

And the skies did cry

So many warriors did die,

Ten thousand souls did fall

Before the towering walls

 

On the day we marched

 

The voice from down below picked up again, echoing his words.

 

On the day we marched

Into Azanulbizar.

 

The last piece had come from all three of them as Dwalin too had joined the battle ballad. Hiron made a face. “Kili… do me a favor and do not encourage that old drunkard to sing anymore.” They came to the railing where they could look down to the lower level and the cells. The old dwarf in his cell had risen, he wore an ancient and well-worn plate armor, but he was neither dirty nor ill-kempt, in fact the way the armor looked bespoke of a measure of pride the old warrior still upheld. He stared up to them, like he could not believe his own eyes. Kili clapped Dwalin’s shoulder. “Get the old warrior out of there, Dwal,” he said softly. “I will clear matters with the bounders.”

 

The bald warrior nodded curtly and went down to the cell, while Kili turned to Hiron. “How much is the bail?” he asked.

 

Hiron sighed. “If it gets me some peace and quiet, I will cut it down to three silver.” He said. “If you want him to work it off…”

 

To his surprise Kili handed him the coin right away. “No need for that, we will take him with us, when we go home.”

 

Dwalin and the old warrior had come up from the cell; the old dwarf walking on his own just fine and showed no sign of excessive drunkenness. Kili guessed he had sobered up since the night, but kept singing to annoy the guardsmen. The old one stopped when he and Dwalin were up, there was a frown when he saw Kili’s face, like he had expected someone else. “I… I had not expected to meet you here, my Prince, and… I am shamed you found me in this den.”

 

Kili had never seen the old dwarf before in his life, but he saw the quick finger signal from Dwalin relaying the letters of a name. “Show me the dwarf that has not ended up in this cheerful place now and then, Hakan.” Kili replied, using the name Dwalin had implied, it may be a near lie as he had no idea who the warrior was, but in the way the old fighter straightened up at being recognized, remembered, told him it was the right thing.

 

Hiron frowned. _Prince?_ He had heard crazy things in here before, but that was a new one, especially in connection with a young dwarf that he had seen shoe horses in market more than once. But now that he looked closer, he noticed the change in the boy, instead of that leather coat he wore armor, chainmail reinforced with scales and while the armor was simple, no adornments, no other marks, it was very good work, expensive. But… still… Hiron had troubles linking the wandering blacksmith to any rank above that of the travelling pack.

 

Kili meanwhile had walked up to the old dwarf. “I have need of you, Hakan,” he said. “The dragon is dead and my father has returned to Erebor, we will need any warriors we have left to bring out people home safely.”

 

There was pure awe rising in the old fighter’s eyes, Hiron noticed. “The dragon is dead?” he asked, like he could not believe it, before straightening up, standing tall. “I am yours to command, my Prince. There are dozens of dwarves here in Bree for the markets, should they hear of this before they spread out for summer work?”

 

“Most certainly, Hakan,” Kili replied. “I was planning on gathering them to have them hear, but you knowing them better and knowing who is here – can you do this?”

 

“At once,” Hakan turned and strode out of the guard house as if he had never been drunk, or dragged in here.

 

Hiron let go of a deep breath, the silence was a blessing. “What is the meaning of all this?” he asked still. “Will it mean more unrest among your kind?”

 

Kili looked at him something akin to amusement in his eyes. “A little, I am afraid, Hiron. But there is good news for you as well – you get your wish to finally get rid of us once and for all. Our people will go home to Erebor, where we belong and you will be rid of your worries. No more wandering dwarves, no more drunken ballads in your cells and no more brawls in the market because some girls were swooning over the blacksmith.” He gave him a nod of goodbye. “Give us a year and we will be out of your hair.”

 

Flustered Hiron watched them leave, not believing what he had heard. Like many men he had wished the Dwarves to the gates of night more than once, they came at indecent times wandering and did not understand why a gate would closed at night, they drank and sang loudly when decent people wanted their quiet, they had the worst table manners and the really bad cases like Kili’s Uncle had the girls swooning over them at any marketday, causing nothing but strife and troubles. But… if they stayed away, who was supposed to shoe the horses and sharpen the tools, who would weld kettles and… they could not just leave, because they took some fool’s notion to their head, could they?

 

“Who is Hakan,” Kili asked softly while he and Dwalin left the guard house. “I never met him.”

 

“Oh but you have though you would have never remembered it,” Dwalin said gruffly. “the last time you probably saw him, you were just a tiny bit of a dwarfling. He was one of King Thrór’s men, survived the dragon, came out of Azanulbizar… and felt it a deep shame that he had survived his king. Wandered far, kept on fighting, but never joined us in Ered Luin, feeling too shamed for that. Meeting you… seeing you accept him, gave him back his pride.”

 

“He never lost his pride, Dwalin,” Kili replied. “He had just forgotten about it for a bit.” His eyes went over the market, seeing two blacksmiths, some dwarven traders, their escort troops packing ponies, a dwarven tinker… so many of them wandering the world, bringing them all home would be a challenge.

 

“Kili!” A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts as Bladvila and Brea pushed through several other people to reach him. They were both followed by a group of other dwarves, which had already been alerted by Hakan. “Kili… you came alone…” Brea’s eyes widened, taking on a fearful expression. “Your father… King Thorin… Dori has kept on telling such horrid stories about him… is he…” she did not manage to say it.

 

“He is alive, Brea,” Kili said warmly, he saw that worry reflected on a lot of faces in front of him. Many of them were about twenty or thirty years older than him, around one hundred or one hundred and ten years old, true adults in the eyes of traditional dwarves. “he was wounded in battle last autumn, but he is alive and well.” He looked from her at the whole group. “The dragon is dead,” he spoke louder now, to have his voice carry over all the market. “Smaug is dead and King Thorin Oakenshield has sent me west to call our people home!”

 

There were gasps, amazement and cheers in the assembling crowd. Brea had clapped her hand over her mouth, like she was trying to not shout. “And what proof is there for that?” a dour voice cut into the cheer. “Just your word that the beast is dead? Thorin and his few did not do very well.”

 

Kili tensed, recognizing the voice as Dori. “The dragon was killed, Dori,” he addressed the dwarf directly. “Erebor is ours once more. If it were different Azog would have been eaten by the dragon.”

 

“Oh… so Azog is dead now as well?” Nori had joined his brother by a trading cart, both of them stared angrily at Kili. “what proof do you have for anything, ‘Prince’?”

 

Bladvila spun about, his fists rose, being fairly tall for a dwarf, with the muscles to match he was not someone to brawl with. “You forget your place, Nori,” he snapped. “and the good manners can be rammed into your dumb skull if you insist.”

 

“Bladvila,” Kili spoke the name calmly, nearly gently, one word enough to make the fighter stand down. “Dori and Nori still carry pain about the death of their brother in Goblin Town.”

 

Dori snorted. “Do not play the noble one here. You have no proof anything has changed, you just…”

 

Kili wordlessly took something from the saddlebags of his horse, two of the dragon’s teeth he had cut from Smaug’s mouth. He raised both in his hands above his head. “Look at these!” he shouted, ignoring Dori’s acid. “these are the teeth of Smaug, whom they called the Terrible, he was a beast and a monster, and in the end he fell, crushing down into the ruins of Dale.” Lowering his arms he actually handed the two dragon teeth to Bladvila and Aife to be passed around.

 

TBR

 

That evening the Prancing Pony was packed with dwarves, occupying a great number of tables, their voices loud and lively, their excitement easily heard out on the streets. With Kili and Dwalin alternating between the groups to answer questions and discuss preliminary plans, Bilbo found himself on one of the smaller tables, where Brea, Bladvila, Alric, Aife and Gerboron had sat down. The Hobbit had chosen the place because it was a bit quieter than others and also because he had seen Brea cry earlier when he came in.

 

The dwarven merchant was leaning against Bladvila, who held her in a brotherly fashion but looked somewhat helpless on how to handle her outburst. Bilbo was sure the two were not siblings, even as they acted like they were. Brea had black hair and a braided dark beard while Bladvila wore his auburn mane in an impressive if wild ponytail and had his beard trimmed short. The latter something Bilbo had observed with some of them. He slipped into his seat quietly, when Brea rubbed her eyes, trying to wipe away the traces of her tears. “I thought you would be happy to have your home back,” he said gently.

 

“She is,” Bladvila said gruffly. “that’s why she is crying… girls… Brea, you never cried before, not even that day they burned our parents.”

 

Brea nearly gave him a slap on the head. “I cry because I am so happy… it’s like something inside me wants to burst… I never believed… but I should have. King Thorin… he said he’d do it and he always kept his word.”

 

“They burned your parents?!” Bilbo asked shocked, he had learned of some what the dwarves had faced on their wanderings but… who would do such a thing.

 

“They burned all the corpses after Moria,” Bladvila said, “even the King’s body was incinerated.”

 

“All our parents, and sometimes grandparents sleep by the shores of Mirrormere, Bilbo,” Aife added. She was a very short dwarf with chestnut hair and an elaborately braided beard. “When the pyres were lit they took the last of our blood clans.”

 

Astonished Bilbo looked at them, they all were not old, adult dwarves certainly, but younger than Dwalin or Thorin. “But… you must have been children back then…” _Our dead were beyond the count of grief_ Balin had said; up until now Bilbo had not made the connection with families left behind, with children orphaned.

 

“We were young, but we survived,” Bladvila said gruffly. “thanks to King Thorin, without him we’d never have made it. I don’t want to imagine what would have become of us had it not been not for him.”

 

“You all seem to revere him,” Bilbo observed. “I mean, I know he is an impressive… dwarf, a great leader and a very very brave warrior but… you all seem very loyal to him.”

 

Bilbo could not know that only his status as Thorin’s companion made up for his seemingly disrespectful question. Brea quickly quieted a grunt from Alric. “There is not one dwarf here that won’t have a story or two about King Thorin,” she said. “had he accepted us, we’d have followed him. But… I guess it is presumptuous to think he’d want us. Bladvila practically begged him to be allowed to join.”

 

“It was not that he would not want us, Brea,” Bladvila’s voice softened when he spoke of this. “he… he said he knew we had lives that could not be abandoned and…” he looked down on his powerful hands that were curled to fists on the table. “he said to me _My house brought enough destruction on you, Bladvila, I will not lead the children of Azanulbizar into another doom._ ”

 

Brea sniffed, trying very hard to not let any more tears free. “He… he always would try to protect us.” She said warmly.

 

Alric confirmed her words with a nod. “He got Bran, Egil, Lini and I out of the Orc claws down in Narn Curunir… I thought we’d never see daylight again. And he came for us… four useless dwarf runts, but he came after us and brought us back to camp.”

 

A thought grew in Bilbo. “I am working on a chronicle about the Quest for Erebor,” he said to them. “but… I know little of Thorin prior to the day he came to Bag-End. Would you… would you tell me those stories? You said, each of you would have a story or two tell about him?”

 

The four looked at each other, then Bladvila called for the innkeeper to bring another round of tankards. “It’s hard to know where to begin, actually,” he said. “after Azanulbizar… there were so many dead, so very many. Whole families butchered, many survivors either too old or too young. Many of us had no families left, or if we did, those families would reside far away, in the Iron Hills and going to them would mean…”

 

“Would mean to beg for scraps of food and hope they don’t throw us out,” Aife added. “no one wants a whole legion of orphans that belong to nobody. And we certainly did not want to beg our great-aunts and second cousins for crusts of bread.”

 

“When King Thorin led us away from Moria, he spared us another crossing of the mountains by taking the route south, around Narn Curunir,” Alric picked up the tale. “it was a slow march and we would go and look for whatever work we could find. Shoveling dung in stables, hacking firewood or digging wells… we banded together with our friends as family and used whatever skills we had to earn our bread. Brea took her father’s war pony and began to peddle wares she could find, Bladvila keeping the robbers off her and working in quarries wherever we came across one. It worked well enough at first, the Rohirrim knew little enough of our kind and thought of us as smaller dwarves. They cared little. But when we came around Narn Curunir, things got harder, there were raided by Orcs and Dunlendings. King Thorin would not accept any of the trek getting lost, no matter how small or unimportant. He always found us, freed more than just some of us from raiders and slavers, found Aife when she was lying injured in that chasm and even went into Orc dens to get us out.”

 

“We had hoped that the lands of men would be easier again but we were wrong, for we met the dwarves of the southern Misty Mountains and of Enedhwaidh eventually.”

 

“You see,” Brea went on telling the tale. “we all were thirty or forty years old, legally speaking we were not allowed to conduct business or honor contracts. And the legal status of an orphaned minor is tricky at best, we suddenly found our fledgling business disrupted by dwarves claiming we were forbidden to trade here, or who would demand the money for our work would be given to them instead because we were orphans and not yet allowed to enter any contract.”

 

Bilbo studied their faces, he could see how they gravitated to each other, like they were still seeking the hold and protection their small group must have afforded them back in those years. “What did you do?” he asked.

 

“One night we came together and talked it through,” Bladvila said. “and it became clear there was no way around it, someone had to bring the matter to the King. We needed his justice like never before. But who was to go? In the end we had all the others chose four of us to speak for them.” His eyes touched the three friends he was sitting with. “They chose the four of us, feeling we could voice all the concerns best. And so, the next evening we went to the other camp, asking to be allowed to see the King.”

 

Brea smiled. “We all were nervous, Bilbo, as you can imagine. Dwalin led us to a campfire where Thorin had been sitting. He looked up at us, and then asked what brought us there.” She ducked her head. “All the words fled my head, I did not get a word out, but Bladvila… he just began to speak, steady as you please. _My King, we are here because we are in need of justice. The Dwarves of this land will steal our work and forbid us to trade, because they claim us too young to work on our own. We cannot work, we are not allowed to trade and some of us are being seized to be made to work for the local dwarves. This is not right._ ”

 

Bilbo smiled, he could imagine those four young dwarves, standing by that fire in the night, all too young, all nervous and Bladvila speaking, trying to sound like a much older warrior than he must have been. He saw Bladvila actually smile back. “King Thorin told us to sit and then tell him our grievances in detail,” he went on where Brea had stopped. “Brea found her tongue again and told him the details of the many causes and problems we had. He listened throughout it all, no impatience, no sign of dismissing us. Then he looked at us with such a gaze, I’ve never seen anything like it again. _Are you sure, you do not want to go to your relations in the Iron Hills? I can have some others bring you there._ He asked us. And we told him that we’d rather make our own way, than beg for breadcrumbs at our richer relative’s doors.”

 

It was a proud decision, a fierce one, and one Bilbo knew Thorin would have liked. “Did he find help for you?” he asked, curious how this had gone on.

 

“He did,” Bladvila replied. “he said _I can only help you by placing an even harder burden on your shoulders, my friends. But I will do so, because denying you this would be the end of our people. You make me very proud of Durin’s folk again._ ” Bladvila repeated the words with awe in his voice. “And the next day he assembled the camp and had those who were orphans and wished so declared free and adult.”

 

“But… you were still so young.” Bilbo interjected. “Doing that made you fend for yourself, forced you to be responsible for yourselves alone.”

 

“He trusted us to do so,” Brea went on as Bladvila fell silent. “with that we could legally conduct business no matter how much some dwarves spluttered, they would not dare to go against the word of Durin’s House. Bilbo, he trusted us to do this, to keep Durin’s folk a proud nation… We were all but a bunch of youngsters striving to survive and he put his trust in us and told us to hold out another year and he’d find a new home for us.  And he did, Bilbo… he did it. By the next winter he had led us North and found the forgotten gates of Belegost… Cardemir. He gave us a home again, he gave us pride… and he protected us.”

 

Bilbo could see the influence Thorin had on his people, not just in their habit of wearing short beards, but also in how he had shaped them, had been an example to them. Indomitable, distant and still… the leader they revered. He had taken notes throughout and would add a few sketches later. “You said each of you had one or two tales…” he said, and he was not disappointed. Within the span of one night he learned a lot he had never known about King Thorin and how he had led his people out of the ashes of Azanulbizar and into a new life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
> 
> Guys, there will be posting slowdown around this weekend, because I won’t be there for a few days, please bear with me.


	3. There and back again

It was a strange thing to see the Brandywine Bridge again, Bilbo thought. When he had come this way the last time, he had still been struggling with his pony, hardly noticing that they were leaving the Shire behind, because Myrtle was not quite agreeing to having to carry a Hobbit. Now, that he saw the bridge again, spanning the river glistening in the sunlight, Bilbo sat comfortably in the saddle of another pony and again had hardly noticed the bridge, because he had been conversing with Kili about a good place for all the wandering dwarves to gather. He had suggested a place north of Highfield, between Little Delving and the West Moors and they had discussed that option right until they reached the bridge. The Buckland gate was wide open and there were a few carts and people on the road.

 

One of the bounders was by the gate and stopped them. “You will be crossing to the Ered Luin, I’d venture to guess,” he said to Kili. “Mind your manners and do not camp in the fields.”

 

“They are with me, thank you very much.” Bilbo spurred his pony to walk up to the unfortunate William Hardfoot, who actually had only been doing his duty in reminding strangers to not disturb the peace. “And we will camp a lot nicer than in someone’s half ploughed field.”

 

William looked at him twice. “And who would you be? Breelander? From Staddle?”

 

“Bilbo Baggins, from Hobbiton, at your service,” Bilbo corrected him, he did not bow only inclined his head. “if that is all, we will be on our way.”

 

“Mr. Baggins?” William Hardfoot’s eyes widened, he actually gaped. “It can’t be… I did not recognize you, Mr. Baggins… looking all outlandish…”

 

Bilbo looked down at himself, he was wearing his chainmail over a tunic of leather and a cloak. He did not see why he should look all that strange. “We better be on our way, then.” He replied and they passed the gate. When they crossed the bridge, Bilbo’s eyes strayed over the river that was running pleasantly through the hills and fields. He knew he should be overjoyed to see it again, to feel home and safe. But… all he noticed was how small Brandywine river seemed, once it had been the greatest river he ever knew and now he could only think that their ponies should be able to swim across without any trouble. Pleasant Brandywine had neither the wild currents of the Bruinen or the might shores of Anduin, nor the rushing waters of the river running. It did not lead to the far away sea or the lone lake…

 

“Bilbo?” Kili had stopped his horse beside him. “Are you alright?”

 

“I… just lost in thoughts.” Bilbo replied resolutely. “Let’s continue on. I want to be in Bag-End before sundown.”

 

Their horses flew along the road and more than a few Hobbits cast disapproving glances at the three swift riders. It was already afternoon when they reached the Threefarthing Stone, in the very heart of the Shire. Spring fair was being held at the stone, and many Hobbits were milling about, trading seedlings, seeds and tools. In the afternoon hours the first bustle had quieted and Tom Proudfoot, the Mayor of Michel Delving was standing on the Threefarthing Dais to make his announcements. Many of them were of joyful content, like announcing when the annual summer fair would be held in Bywater and that the lamb showing would be in Tuckborough come June.

 

But Bilbo stiffened in the saddle when he heard Tom Proudfoot call out. “If anyone has anything to say about the whereabouts of Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End, he may speak up! If no one can provide word or information about his person he must be assumed dead and…”

 

“They can’t do that!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I was only gone one year! They waited five for Daisy Took!”

 

“What _are_ they doing?” Kili asked, not quite sure what to think of these proceedings.

 

“They are declaring me dead! Only they won’t!” Bilbo turned his pony and nudged it into trot right into the fairgrounds, a number of Hobbits making room for him, not without annoyed whispers and hisses.

 

“Does anyone have anything to say about the whereabouts of Mr. Bilbo Baggins that has not yet been heard?” Tom had to ask three times, it was required by Shire law, but it was obvious he was not expecting anyone to speak up.

 

“I would have!” Bilbo called out as he dismounted the pony and walked up the dais. “More than a few things actually.”

 

Tom Proudfoot turned to look at Bilbo, his eyes narrowing and a frown marring the mayor’s broad face. “And who would you be?” he asked, not for stupidity alone, but also because protocol required it of him.

 

Bilbo sighed, Tom did not look like had recognized him. Had he dirt on his face? A scar? Annoyed he pushed some streaks of hair out of his face. “I am Bilbo Baggins. And I am neither dead nor vanished, thank you very much.”

 

Gasps and whispers rose among the assembled Hobbits, who were eagerly watching the events. This would be the talk over many an ale in the inns not only for tonight but for many days to come.

 

“Mr. Baggins, welcome home.” Tom Proudfoot was not mayor for nothing, he salvaged the situation quickly. “We had such grievous news of you being dragged away by robbers, and when your family had no word of you…”

 

“… they happily assumed my demise.” Bilbo finished the sentence. “I will admit my departure was a little hasty, but honored that I was to being asked to join the company of Thorin Oakenshield, I forgot to inform my relatives in my excitement.” He saw how a number of stares turned from him to the dwarves on their horses. “Now, if you would kindly put an end to this nonsense, Tom Proudfoot, as I am neither dead nor have any intention of dying in the near future.”

 

Tom Proudfoot knew he had little choice over the matter, if any proof could be procured of the whereabouts of a vanished person the proceeding of declaring them dead was halted, all the more so if the person showed up in person, rare as that was, albeit several Tooks had managed similar feats, the poor boy obviously took after his mother. “Of course, Mr. Baggins. Welcome back to the Shire… you may need a little time to get home again, I dare say.” He turned to the crowed to announce the proceedings ended, as Mr. Bilbo Baggins had safely returned home.

 

Descending the dais, Bilbo found himself stared at by the crowd, a sheep with two heads could not have been more exciting. “Bilbo Baggins!” A very well dressed, and well-rounded matron pushed her way through the crowd. “you should be ashamed to show up here, dressed like a vagabond! Oh, your poor mother, it would break her heart.”

 

Bilbo ducked like he had spotted an orc approach him. It was his Aunt Marigold Took, sister of his mother and a very respectable person all around. “I do not know why everyone keeps staring at me, like that.” He said, a bit miffed. “my clothes may be a little bit strange, but I am still decently dressed and…”

 

“Decently? How would you dare to even speak this word?” Marigold Took screeched in shock. The Hobbits chuckled and gave her some berth, she was infamous for her temper tantrums and her public scolding of her younger relatives. “You arrive here looking like a vagabond from Bree…” She raised her Umbrella, pointing at his legs. “These breeches have not been washed in weeks, and this thing…” she pointed at his chainmail shirt. “this thing is outrageous, no respectable Hobbit would wear it. And your hair? Have you forgotten to cut it, it is as long as a lasses’!”

 

Bilbo indeed had quite long hair now, it had not been cut in a whole year, but until now he had hardly cared, because among dwarves he had hardly stood out with it. He shrugged, looking at the fair tips brushing his shoulders, it was really nothing, not compared to the manes some of his friends maintained. And he had not braided it either. “I think I am very fine the way I am, Auntie,” he said firmly. “And if you will excuse me, I have to go to Bag-End because I would like to offer my friends a decent place to rest.”

 

He returned to his pony, mounted and quite forcefully made his way off the fair grounds. “Do you want me to talk to her?” Kili asked when he reached him. “If she knew what you have done, how you saved us…”

 

“Gracious no!” Bilbo exclaimed. “she would only get worse, Kili. If you told her that I helped to burn Goblin town, or sneaked into the dungeons of an elven King… let alone fought in a battle…”

 

“Let’s not forget the dragon,” Kili said. “I have been thinking of a Ballad of Bilbo Baggins a lot on the way back, to have it ready when you came home…”

 

Bilbo sighed; he could see so much honest affection in his friends. “No one would believe you, Kili,” he said. “my people… are not exactly adventurers, nor do they appreciate these things.”

 

They rode on, through Bywater and finally up the hill towards Bag-End. In his dreams Bilbo had often seen his homely hole, warm light falling filtering out through the glass windows into the cold evening air. He had often wished to be here again, but now when he stood at the gate, he noticed at once that the garden door was open and the round door of Bag-End as well.

 

“Robbers,” Dwalin said, swiftly dismounting his horse he shouldered Stormcaller. “Kili you take the front door, I take the back entrance,”

 

“Wait…” Bilbo called but it was already too late. Kili had dismounted too and drawn the sword, with the heavy blade in his hand he reminded Bilbo instantly of Thorin. Swiftly Kili approached the door to push it open. Bilbo followed him, sword in hand, just in case.

 

The hallway of Bag-End was piled with bits and pieces, mostly books and notes, stacked into boxes. “This rubbish will have to go of course,” Bilbo heard a familiar voice. “I have no idea what he wanted with all this junk. Books, Maps and more books. He had no common Hobbit-sense at all.”

 

Coming from the study a Hobbit woman walked into the hall, her dress dusty and her hair tied up in an unbecoming bun. Lobelia pressed her lips together like she had eaten something particularly distasteful when she saw Kili. “And what would you be doing here?” she asked shrilly. “Ruffians and Thieves are not welcome here.”

 

Kili raised the blade slightly, widening his stance. “I think you are the thief here, breaking into the home of a very good friend.” He growled. “Out with you… and whatever helper you have.”

 

“Got him, lad!” Dwalin had entered through the back entrance and pushed a plump Hobbit down the hall, the bald dwarf had his warhammer still leaning against his shoulder, he did not need both hands to handle the frightened Hobbit.

 

“Otho!” Lobelia shrieked. “How dare you! Ruffians! Thieves!”

 

“Out you go,” Kili stepped aside to open the way out of the front door. “this home does not belong to you and you will not steal it from Bilbo.”

 

The wave of the sharp blade was enough to make Lobelia walked out the front door, where she saw Bilbo. “You!!” Her voice cracked. “I should have known you ran away with ruffians and murderers.”

 

Bilbo realized he still had his sword in hand, expecting danger far beyond a flustered Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. He sheathed the blade. “I would appreciate it if you could stop calling my friends that, Lobelia,” he said quietly. “As you can see I am alive and well, there is no Bag-End to inherit, not in a good many years I dare hope.”

 

“Friends?” Otho Sackville-Baggins cast a dark glance at Dwalin. “If these are your friends then you have sunken beneath any Hobbit that ever lived, befriending the pack from the road.”

 

Anger rose in Bilbo, he had found it hard already to see his friends treated like scum by the Breelanders, but he would not stand here on the step of his own house and have them insulted. Shooting forward he slapped Otho’s face right and left. “Your presence here is an insult in and by itself, Otho Sackville-Baggins! And you will not insult my friends in such a manner, or I will beat the first manners you ever had into your fat behind!”

 

“Bilbo,” Kili actually caught his hand before a third slap could fall. “annoying though they might be, they are your blood-relations, there is no need to beat them up over a few words.”

 

Bilbo’s chest heaved with anger. “No, Kili, I will not have it, I will not have them insult a Prince of Durin’s line and the Warmaster of Erebor on my doorstep. If that’s my blood relatives then I’d rather have none. I am proud to call you my friends and… I won’t have her turn her hardbottled nose up at you.”

 

“If that’s how you want it!” Lobelia had found her tongue again. “You are relation of mine no longer, Bilbo Baggins, mark my words! You will come to a bad end, falling in with the likes of these. Who knows how they have corrupted you already…”

 

She did not managed to speak on, finding herself seized by the scruff of her neck. “Think you can insult our Hobbit, lass? Think again.” Dwalin grumbled his voice deep with anger. “He’s worth ten of your sort.” He pulled back his arm and then suddenly tossed her with all his strength. Shrieking Lobelia sailed through air, over the hedge and the way, landing with a splash in the duck pond of Bagshot Row number 5. Shrieking and spluttering she came up from the waters, her dress covered with algae. Blanching Otho ran from the premises, both their voices having roused the entire neighbourhood. There was no denizen of Baghshot Row old or young that was not out watching Otho lift the invective Lobelia from Clayhanger’s duck pond.

 

Suddenly Bilbo was aware that the whole neighbourhood had watched the proceedings, and that these events would be the talk of the entire village in years to come. And he could not find it in himself to be ashamed or embarrassed. Instead he stepped close to the two dwarves, who put their hands on his shoulders. “There is nothing like some dwarven friends when you need to clean house.”

 

TRB

 

The door of Bag-End closed behind him, Bilbo exhaled, shaking his head. “The Green Dragon will be packed tonight,” he said to Kili, who was with him. Dwalin was leading the horses to the meadow in the garden, where they could well remain for the night. “so much for a quiet ale and food at the inn.”

 

“We still have the provisions we brought from Bree,” Kili said. “and it won’t take much to get a fire going. And we’ll help you with these things…” his eyes pointed to the pile of books in the hallway.

 

“No, just put them into my study, Lobelia’s mucking around is not important.” Bilbo replied, Kili’s suggestion much to his liking. “I think there was still firewood stacked outside… it might need a few quick chops to fit the hearth. I’ll go and get us some more food.” He would have to knock at Mistress Gamgee’s kitchen door and ask if he could buy some of her pantry, but she was no stranger to that. Bilbo had often returned from his walking holidays with his own pantry empty and the markets long closed.

 

The plan set, Bilbo went out the back door, hopped over the hedge and was at Gamgee’s kitchen door swiftly enough. “Mr. Bilbo!” Bell Goldchild, wife of Hamfast Gamgee greeted Bilbo with a smile. “That was quite a row up there, beggin’ your pardon. This Lobelia has been after the place ever since the summer.”

 

“I can well imagine, Mistress Gamgee,” Bilbo replied, his polite addressing of her, always made Bell blush. “and I’m afraid even if my larder had been stocked when I departed, it would have all gone bad by now and I am having two friends with me as well. Would you be so gracious as to sell some of your famous supplies again?”

 

Bell Gamgee laughed warmly. “I made meat-pies for the market tomorrow, but I dare say you and your friends will enjoy them just as well.” She looked at Bilbo and worry crept into her eyes. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Bilbo, but are you quite alright? You seem changed a lot.”

 

“It was a long journey, Mistress Gamgee,” Bilbo replied. “and many things happened… things I never thought I’d see.” He straightened up. “Do not let it worry you, I am still Bilbo Baggins…”  She smiled and did not argue the case any longer.

 

When Bilbo returned to Bag-End, he found the hallways cleared of clutter, making Bag-End look nearly like it had when he had left. A fire was roaring in the hearth, and Kili brought in another pile of wood. Bilbo carried the food right into the parlor and put it down on a side table there. The air in the room was a bit stuffy, so he opened the window a little, with the fire roaring it would be warm enough either way.

 

He sighed when he saw a crate of things Lobelia had put there for throwing out in the parlor too. “Kili, could you help me to move that?” he asked, and together they lifted the box into the neighboring room. “gracious… she wanted to throw away the instruments my mother inherited from her great-grand aunt Maple.” Bilbo frowned when he saw the flute and the fiddle on top of the box.

 

Gingerly Kili took the fiddle from the box, checking the strings. “Your family loved music?” he asked, carefully adjusting the pegs, before gently drawing the bow over them, then adjusting the pegs again.

 

“A little,” Bilbo said. “Mother’s aunt Maple was married to an instrument maker and she of course loved them. Mother kept them for sentimental reasons solely.” He listened up when the first clear notes fluttered from the bow as Kili tested is again. “Do you play?” Instead of an answer Kili began to play, the tune of the familiar song of the Misty Mountains echoing again through Bag-End. Bilbo smiled, hearing the familiar tune.

 

And thus they ended up by the fire that evening, with much laughter and music, Kili would play as Bilbo and Dwalin sang, and many a song they all three sang. Unaware that the neighbours outside were marveled at the strange tunes they would hear echo from Bag-End, and flustered at the songs of war and battle, of heroes and long forgotten times that they heard from the open window. But they were shocked to their very cores when they heard three voices carry a sad foreign tune, in a language they did not understand and then clearly heard the lighter voice of Bilbo Baggins, giving the tune words as he could in the common tongue.

 

Our King has fallen,

 

Oh hold your ground,

Children of the Mountain!

 

They are breaking through,

their numbers unending,

 

Oh hold your ground,

warriors of the Reach!

 

Our King has fallen,

but we fight on!

 

TRB

 

It was late in the night and Bilbo was tossing and turning in his bed, unable to sleep and if he dozed off, his dreams were restless. The bed was too soft, his back ached after an hour of lying on the soft mattress and he found no rest. It was too quiet in here, no fire was softly crackling as it burned out, no one was snoring gleefully just a bedroll away and no guard walked around the camp. The latter was what made Bilbo the most restless, he had gotten so used to the presence of someone standing guard, to the heavy steps now and then, the jingle of armor and the knowledge that someone was there, having an eye on the dark.

 

Two hours past midnight he got up, his back aching and his heart restless with the quiet of Bag-End. He lit a candle in a dusty candleholder and soft-footedly crept through Bag-End. Dwalin and Kili were asleep in their guest rooms he assumed, this time no one would camp on the floor!

 

In the middle of the night, Bag-End was quiet and empty. As he walked through the halls, he could not help but notice the silence, heavier and darker than even the silence of Erebor after the dragon had been defeated. He walked to the front door and checked if it was properly locked, looking at the round wooden door that still should bear the mark Gandalf had scratched into it, he remembered how he had opened it that night, and first met Dwalin… followed by Balin… the memory of the kind old dwarf drove tears into his eyes. Dear Balin, who had been so literal when Bilbo had wished him a good evening. Bombur and Ori who had landed on the doormat… still, in spite of the pain he had to smile when he recalled that party.

 

Gandalf had been right, the dwarves were a merry gathering, once one got used to them. And they made wonderful friends. Standing here in the empty hall Bilbo wondered about how alone he had been before the dwarves’ arrival, he had had no close friends, nor much of a family he still was social with.

 

He walked back towards the parlor, softly humming the tune of “Far over the Misty Mountains cold,”, but it stuck in his throat when he came to the corner of the hallway. Boromir had sat there that night and they had talked while the dwarves sang. They had talked about fear and about death…

 

_“We all die, Bilbo, whether from a blade in the back or from the cart-horses’ hooves when the drunken driver can’t control it any more. It’s what we fight for, what we die for that matters, I’d rather die for a friend, or my king, instead of dying of old age in my bed. It does not matter how long a candle burns as long as it casts a bright light.”_

The warrior had said, and now that Bilbo knew how bravely his friend had met his end, the words rang all the more true. He only realized he was crying, when he felt a pair of strong hands drawing him into a hug. Being held like a small hobbit, made it only worse and Bilbo’s tears became sobs, barely stifled by the shoulder he was crying into, crying for Balin, the kind gentle dwarf, for Boromir, who had taught him so much about courage, who had trusted him in the middle of the chaos of Goblin town… for Bombur who had gleefully helped him cook so many evenings, who had bravely joined the journey to protect his brother and cousin and who had hated adventure as much as Bilbo had thought he did, for Ori, the young scribe who had never come back from Goblin Town. Bilbo had never cried on their journey, and now it all broke out of him, as he stood in the cold hallway of Bag-End, a stranger in his own home, a stranger to the life he had thought was his. He did not know how long it had been until the tears ceased and the heavy stone in his chest melted away.

 

“Better?” Kili asked him, still not letting go of him.

 

Bilbo looked up, realizing who it was. “I… I am sorry, Kili… I did not mean to wake you…”

 

Kili shook his head, letting go a little, so Bilbo could stand comfortably. “I wasn’t asleep, Bilbo. This place… it woke memories…”

 

“You too?” Bilbo asked, gesturing Kili to follow him to the parlor, where they could sit by the low burning fire.

 

“Yes, but it was good memories. I would not want to forget them; if that means a few sleepless nights… sleep is overrated anyway.”

 

There it was again, the strength Bilbo had seen so often in the dwarves, they may get beaten down, but they would pick themselves up and fight on. They truly had souls of steel. “How is Dwalin?” he asked. “I never considered that coming here would be painful for him too…”

 

“Asleep now,” Kili replied, leaning against the warm stones beside the fire. “he will rarely allow his pain to show, he is too strong for that.”

 

“And if strength runs out… there’s friends.” Bilbo squeezed Kili’s shoulder. “I am glad you were there… I… do you want to leave tomorrow already?” He realized it may be easier for Dwalin not to be forced to linger here and they had to go to the Ered Luin, and tell their people to make ready to return home, to Erebor. Not to speak that Kili’s mother, or rather: Aunt, was waiting for news of the sons she had sent to fight… she must be mad with worry and fear by now.

 

“Would you rather have us stay for a day or two?” Kili asked gently, his dark eyes observing Bilbo.

 

“I…” Bilbo sat down beside the dwarf, on the floor, eschewing the chairs. “I… don’t know, Kili. While we travelled I thought of Bag-End a lot, of my home… thought I missed it. And now, that I am here… it is cold and empty. I can’t sleep in a soft bed and I miss the steps of the guards, I ride into a place of my people and get stared at because I was dressed sensibly for a change.” He looked at his hands. “It is like I am stranger here… like the Bilbo Baggins that used to live here is someone else, someone that I knew once… but not me.”

 

“You have changed a lot, you have seen things that many Hobbits would never dream of,” Kili pointed out. “you fought to protect your friends and you survived all kinds of things; Goblins, Warg attacks, Horrors and a dragon… but no matter how much you changed, you are still Bilbo Baggins, our Hobbit.”

 

The words made Bilbo smile, the possessive ‘our Hobbit’ title the dwarves had given him, was a term of affection, their way of expressing friendship and care. “Kili… I don’t know how to go back from being ‘your burglar’, ‘your expert treasure hunter’ to being Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End. I… I can’t…” He rubbed his hands against his arms. “When… when I stood on that hill before the gates and knew you, your brother and Thorin lay behind me, lying in your own blood,  maybe dead, maybe dying… I would have given anything to see you survive, I fought, killed… and I wished I were a better warrior to protect you three. And… when Dwalin carried you off the field, hardly breathing…”

 

Her felt another strong hug, Kili did not say anything, but Bilbo felt that the dwarven warrior understood better than Bilbo could express his feelings. Bilbo sighed. “I can’t be the Master of Bag-End anymore and discuss the weather and the strange Breelanders over tea and biscuits with my peers. I am not that Hobbit anymore… and I don’t want to be. Though what I am, I do not know.”

 

Kili still held his shoulders, serious dark eyes meeting Bilbo’s. “You could remain what you are, Bilbo. Our Hobbit, that is. You helped us to reclaim Erebor, you are one of our company forever and Erebor can be your home too.”

 

“I wouldn’t want to impose…” Bilbo’s heart surged, but his proper manners had him speak differently.

 

“Stop being so Hobbit-ish,” Kili told him. “When you joined the company you became one of us, and that has not changed. And I dare say we could need your help, no one has been in the deeps of the mountain in decades, not to mention the mess the dragon made of the library…”

 

The words had Bilbo laugh, he felt like the door of a cage had been kicked open, or maybe hewn open by a solid axe. “Then I will come with you, back to Erebor, gladly.” He said, his heart suddenly so much lighter. “We would need to stay one day, so I can set some things in order… then we leave.”

 

“Make that two days, so you can pack the books you missed so much,” Kili said. “you may be gone a very long time.”

 

“I hope so,” Bilbo replied. “Thank you, Kili...”

 

The dwarf gestured him closer, quickly taking a few of Bilbo’s long strands of hair. The Hobbit fidgeted but did not pull away, having learned enough about dwarven traditions to know that this was not a joke. When Kili was done a single braid was mixed among the strands of Bilbo’s light hair, held by a steel clasp. He carefully fingered the braid that seemed made of seven strands. “What does it mean?” he asked.

 

“That you are of the Kingdom of Erebor and under the protection of Durin’s House,” Kili explained. “that way dwarves will know at once you are one of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
> 
> Guys, there will be posting slowdown around this weekend, because I won’t be there for a few days, please bear with me.


	4. A new commitment

Drogo Baggins knew that his visit here would have Aunt Marigold in another outrage, and several more relations would be flustered as well. The talk had not stopped since Bilbo had returned the day before yesterday. All Hobbiton was still talking about his return, and how his strange outlandish companions, two _dwarves_ no less, had thrown Lobelia Sackville-Baggins into Clayhanger’s duck pond. “He fell in with the worst kind of travelling folk,” Drogo’s father Fosco Baggins had stated. “if poor Bungo knew how his own son is behaving…”

 

And Drogo’s sister, Dora had repeated in detail all that Lobelia had said about Bilbo and his ruffian friends, comparing them to Highwaymen and robbers. Drogo’s mother, Ruby Baggins had taken a more practical view on matters. Being born to the family of Bolger, a considerably poorer family her assessment was quite different. “Their horses were good, healthy animals, of some worth,” she had said at the evening table, shutting Dora’s repetition of Lobelias insinuations up. “And while I do not know much of all the iron trade, my sister married Bastin Underhill from Staddle, and I saw the merchants when I visited her. What they charge for such chain armors is outrageous, you could buy an orchard with that money and have enough left to pay the gardeners. I have no idea why Bilbo would wear such foreign fashion but it certainly did not come cheap. The same goes for the things his friends wore, and the younger one, the one with the lovely hair, wore a gold bead in his hair.” She had cast a challenging look at her husband. “So much for travelling folk without a penny to their name.”

 

Their discussion had resulted in a proper row, and Fosco sulked all the next morning, because he never won an argument with his wife. Drogo had fled the premises early in the day, deciding to go to Bag-End and talk to Bilbo himself. He had always liked him and he was sick of hearing the rumors.

 

When he had knocked on the green door of Bag-End it had been opened by one of the dwarves, the one with the long hair that Drogo’s mother admired so much. “My name is Drogo Baggins…” Drogo had begun.

 

“Drogo!” Bilbo came down the hallway behind the dwarf. “come in, come in, it is good to see you.” And he had clasped Drogo’s arm, leading him right into the kitchen, where a huge kettle of water was boiling and tea was brewing.

 

Drogo had stared at his cousin, who still wore the odd mail shirt, why had he not changed into something more comfortable? “You seem busy,” he observed. “and I did not want to interrupt…”

 

“Oh no, now you must stay for tea,” Bilbo said, filling their cups. “and I had planned on coming to see you before evening either way. If Orin is here before nightfall and loads the cart, I will be off soon enough.”

 

“You are leaving again?” Drogo asked shocked. “but Bilbo you just have come back. You can’t have even properly settled down again… you have the entire place in an uproar.”

 

Bilbo sat down opposite of him. “I have not failed to notice, they began to stare the moment we showed up, and Lobelia saw to the rest.”

 

“I know, she is spreading a lot of goat’s droppings down in Bywater,” Drogo said disdainfully, he disliked Lobelia. “but Bilbo… if you stay a while, settle down and become proper again, they will quiet and sooner or later they will find something else to talk about.”

 

“And therein lies the problem,” Bilbo said. “I don’t want to become ‘proper’ again and I have no wish to scrape my way back into their good graces. I would end up a Hobbit who cannot have his real friends visit him in daylight, but who has to receive them after dark and through the backdoor…” He shook his head, the braid he wore in his hair, swinging. “No, Drogo, I am too proud of being their friend to ever do that.”

 

“Bilbo, what is that?” Drogo pointed at the braid Bilbo wore. His branch of the extended Baggins relations held several traders and he recognized a dwarven braid when he saw one. “Did they… did they adopt you?”

 

Gently Bilbo touched the clasp holding the braid before he tucked it back behind his ear. “No, Drogo, being adopted by their house would be too great an honor for any Hobbit. It signifies belonging and protection, that I am part of their people, in a way.” He explained.

 

“You have changed,” Drogo said softly.

 

“I have, I am not the same Hobbit that left here one year ago,” Bilbo smiled at Drogo. “but I think I like this Hobbit better than I did the one from before.”

 

“If you are leaving, for who knows how long this time, will you be selling Bag-End?” Drogo asked. “Because if that rumor gets out there won’t be any quiet until the Midsummer dances.”

 

Bilbo chuckled. “No, we can’t keep them quite as entertained,” he said. “actually this is what I wanted to talk to you about. I may be gone for a long time, for years most likely. And I was thinking of having someone move in here and take care of the place, look after the leases as well, they bring in more than enough to keep this hole in pristine shape.” He winked at Drogo. “Maybe someone who is already sweet on a lass and would like a nice place to live with her.”

 

Drogo blushed, when Bilbo mentioned Primula. “You… you want me to be guardian of Bag-End?” he asked, surprised by this revelation. “but… for how long will you be gone?”

 

“I don’t know, Drogo.” Bilbo rose and walked to the small kitchen window. “the road to Erebor is long and bringing all their people home, will be half a year at least, so we will be back at the Mountain in autumn most likely. That places the coronation sometime in next winter, or later… and after that…”

 

“Bilbo, what are you talking about?” Drogo asked, confused. “some people overheard last night that you called one of them a Prince… but the dwarves are wandering people.” He rose and followed Bilbo to the window, where he could see the two dwarves, looking after some horses that were grazing in the middle of Bag-End’s garden.

 

“They were a wandering people, aye,” Bilbo replied softly, his eyes on the two dwarves outside. “because their home was taken from them by a dragon and Kili’s father, Thorin Oakenshield, led us back to Erebor, where Kili killed Smaug the Terrible.”

 

Drogo shook his head, this sounded much like a fairy tale, only that he could feel Bilbo was sincere. He hardly recognized his own cousin. “What happened to you, Bilbo?” he asked.

 

Startled Bilbo looked at him, with a gaze that Drogo had never seen before. “I joined them without knowing what I would get myself into, Drogo. I tried to free them before they could be cooked by trolls, but we were lucky that time because dawn saved us all. I helped a great warrior to scorch Goblin Town… I knew what that meant and I still did it because it was the only way to help my friends.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I stood up to a huge Orc to protect my King, and I was lucky again, because Fili and Balin were swift to catch up with me, I would not have lasted long against Azog.” His eyes took a strange, eerie quality like he was no longer seeing Drogo at all. “I saw my friends captured and interrogated in the dungeons of Mirkwood, and when the dragon was dead, I… I was part of a battle. I stood between the dead and the dying, knowing Thorin and his sons lay behind me, among all the others cut down, and I fought to protect them.” He shook his head. “I do not know how long we fought, I do not know how many I killed, it was all a madness of bodies, of blood and of screams.” He straightened up a bit, coming back to the present. “But they are alive, even as it was another who saved them. They live and I am glad for that.”

 

Drogo might not be the sharpest of all Hobbits and he understood barely a quarter of what Bilbo said about Orcs and battles, but he had picked up on something else. “Your King? Hobbits don’t have Kings.”

 

“We used to, when Arnor was still in existence,” Bilbo pointed out. He had not even realized what he had said until Drogo pointed it out to him. In the passing year he had shared the loyalties of his dwarven comrades, their quest and their task for their people… and like them he respected and admired Thorin, he was a great leader, and he would be a great King. Bilbo had not realized how strongly his loyalties had turned to the grim dwarven leader. “for my own person, Arnor can keep its kings and glory.”

 

Drogo shook his head, he did not even pretend to understand Bilbo, but he could see his cousin’s heart was set on this, and no one ever stood between a Took and their goals. “So… you said you need someone to take care of Bag-End?” he asked, steering their talk back to safer waters.

 

TRB

 

Two days later Drogo Baggins stood at the door of Bag-End watching Bilbo mount his pony on the path before the gate. A dwarf named Orin had come with a cart to take whatever books and other things Bilbo had decided to take along. And while Drogo watched he had a strange, heavy feeling in his little heart. The Bilbo he had seen these last two days was decidedly strange and odd but somehow far more interesting than all the Halflings of Hobbiton and Buckland put together. He did not seem the least bit unhappy to ride away from his comfortable hole and his well to do life. Why he should chose a life of dangers above all this, Drogo could not fathom but he still waved after him and watched as the three riders passed down Bagshot Row, when they had passed Clayhanger’s orchard they began to sing, the wind carrying a part of the song up to him, and he could distinctly hear Bilbo’s bright voice among the deep baritone of his companion.

 

Somewhere under the star's wide dome

the wind and the world became my home,

drawn to the land of the woods and weave

finding the road again, I could never leave.

 

TRB

 

The fire would not burn for her, it hissed and crackled in the racks but did not flare up as it should. Dis sighed and stared angrily at the embers. For all her being a smithy like most of Durin’s House, she had never had a talent with fire, unlike her brother or her boys who would only have to look at a log to make it blaze sometimes. It had amused Dari too, even as it never truly showed beyond that warm smile in his eyes. _Allow me, Princess._ He would say, and take the stones from her to start the fire. In moments like these she could still feel his presence, hear the deep warm voice in her ear and feel the strong hands take the logs from her. For the longest time he had never said her name, she had always been _Princess, M’lady_ or _your Highness_ , even when she had been shivering by the campfire and glad for whatever food he had been able to procure in the wastelands surrounding them.

 

The first time he had said her name had been the horrible day after her brother had been lost to them in a snowstorm. The weather was still bad, icy winds howling from the North and snow falling thickly. No one would have gone to search for Thorin, except maybe Dwalin and he had his hands full with the tasks Thrain had heaped on him. Dis still remembered how Dari had gotten up to grab his swords when she had told him. “Do not worry, Dis, I will find him. A little cold won’t kill him.” He had said, marching off into the storm with the resistance and absolute poise only one of the reach would show towards the winter’s wrath. And he had brought Thorin back, cold, nearly frozen but alive and no worse for wear. That evening she had sat by the fire and watched Dari cook up some hot brew for Thorin, scolding him a little for not being careful.

 

She had envied Thorin then, because with him Dari was not as guarded. When they were alone and the situation permitted it, he’d call him by name and spoken to him beyond answers when spoken to. Thorin had Dari’s friendship and his unwavering loyalty. In the months to come she had managed to make Dari open up more, to give up on his guarded behavior towards her, to finally realize why he had been keeping such distance between them.

 

She smiled, their wedding had been the following summer, with her father protesting loudly and her grandfather grumbling “You would not listen to me anyway, Dis.” But staying away as well. It had been Thorin who had put their hands into each other’s and declared them bonded under that magnificent willow tree in the Anduin valley. He had been happy and so had Frérin, even if he sometimes could not help his arrogance.

 

Dis gently clutched the steel clasp in her hair. The day she had lost Dari, she had also lost her father, grandfather and brother on the blood fields by the gates of Moria. Maybe that was why she had not felt the pain for his passing so sharply and fiercely, like Thorin had. Her mourning had been for her entire family and she had had no time for proper mourning either. There was a camp of survivors that needed her strong, that needed her competent and that needed leadership, if the tears came they would never stop. She had not cried but done her duty, and she had known Dari would understand, he had always understood that the duties of the royal house would come first. She had worked hard, throwing herself into her task so much that she had not noticed how much her sons suffered.

 

Until the one night in Dunland when she had come back to their camp to find her boys with Thorin, which was surprising enough. Thorin had as much on his shoulders as she did, if not more and he was in a perpetual gloomy, dark mood since the battle, easy to flare up and not easy to bear with for long. He may rein it in when dealing with their people as well as he could, and they did not expect him to be cheery, but to his family he had been cold and rough since the pyres had burned by Mirrormere’s cold shores. But that night she had seen her two boys sitting with him, cuddled up against his broad chest. Kili, always the bold one, snuggled up right against his heart, head buried in the crook of Thorin’s shoulder, while Fili sat to the other side, not assuming as much, but Thorin had wrapped his sword arm around him, holding him as close. It was the first time in months that Dis had seen a gentler expression on Thorin’s face.

 

She had tried to explain to her boys that their Uncle Thorin had a lot on his shoulders, that so many people came to him with their worries, and that there was no food and no homes, the latter something they did not understand as they had never had a home save the wandering camps. She had tried to explain that they should not expect Thorin to be nice, that he was tired and hungry, just as they all were. Both boys had nodded earnestly, but slipped back to their uncle the following evening, Thorin had been in a foul mood that day, after having lost four of their people to an Orc raid, four youngsters dead before Thorin could even reach them. Dis also knew that Thorin had probably given his rations to some of the small orphan children in the camp. All the more shocked had she been when she saw that Fili and Kili had saved some of their rations for him. She knew they had to be hungry themselves. Dis always gave half her rations to others who needed it more, and she had taught her sons to do the same. There were others worse off in their camp, who did not have someone like Dwalin who would hunt for them. Their rations might be meager already but it was the principle of the thing, and a grumbling stomach was well worth it if it kept someone else from starving. Thorin had refused to take their rations, trying to send them away, but they had been insistent. “You must eat, please, we can’t go on without you.” Fili had said, making those big eyes at Thorin and it was the first time Dis had seen her brother capitulate before anything.

 

From that day the boys would follow Thorin around wherever he went in camp, and when he was away they would guard his things, look after his pony and wait for him. They talked Dwalin into teaching them the way of sword, so they could ‘help Uncle Thorin’. Dis had tried hard not to laugh, when she had seen the two small boys with the sticks Dwalin gave them to practice.

 

Her laughter had died the following year, when they had finally settled in the Ered Luin with the settlement of the broken city taking off well, the boys had a more stable home, and still would go to Dwalin for training each day, throwing themselves into their training with such a fierce energy that Dis’ heart sometimes clenched. She had lost too many of her family to battle to add any more. Seeing her sons, these small children, practice with wooden swords cut into her heart. The ties of both boys to Thorin remained close, his efforts to push them away lasted a full year more, but the dwarflings wormed their way into his heart, disregarding all coldness, aloofness and rough words entirely. The moments Dis saw her brother at night sit by the fire of Stormwyrd Hall, his arms full with two dwarflings, a blond head resting against one shoulder, a dark against the other, sometimes singing to them, sometimes telling them stories and often just holding them, until they slept, became more frequent and she could see a warmth return to Thorin’s eyes.

 

Of course she had seen how much the boys strove for Thorin’s approval, Fili tried so very hard to not cry anymore after Thorin had told him that the eldest of Durin’s House should not be a crybaby, and Kili stopped asking for a glowstone in his room, for the same reason, in spite of being afraid of the dark. They grew, became stronger and by the time they were in their twenties, Dis knew that both had nearly forgotten Dari. Thorin being the father they knew and needed. She sighed. Then her long sickness had come, and Thorin had taken the boys on the road with him, his apprentices. When they had returned they had grown physically and mentally, and they also had been scarred, but their bond to Thorin had only deepened. They followed him back to the road again out of their own volition, to far off places, until they did not even know anymore what was wrong with a life like that. It had been the second time Dis had secretly felt jealous. Thorin had the absolute loyalty and devotion of her sons, they would follow him anywhere, do anything for him, for they loved him fiercely, and she knew that her brother coveted that adoration.

 

Oh the curse of Durin’s House! Their greed did not go just towards gold or treasures, were it only so! Their greed went deeper, it was a mar on their very souls, Durin’s Blood always would be possessive of their own, of their friends… and they would covet the devotion and loyalty they could spark in others, they would feed and thrive on that, more than on any other sustenance. And they would be loved and adored for their own possessive loyalty to theirs.

 

Dis pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. A Princess of Durin’s line did not cry like a sad peasant girl. When Thorin had finally declared Kili his son, truthfully so, he had also adopted Fili as his second son, finalizing what had been an unspoken fact for decades: both boys were his, his sons, comrades and heirs.  Dis sighed, she had known this day would come, and she still felt it was a betrayal to Dari, that his name should be stricken from Fili’s ancestry. She knew that Dari would not mind, were he alive, he’d have been present at the ceremony, allowing Thorin to adopt his son, swearing loyalty to the new Prince without a flinch. But he had not been there, and the boys had followed Thorin on the quest to retake Erebor. In her heart Dis had known that they would share Thorin’s fate, and they would follow him, be it to the heights of the throne of Erebor or to an early unmarked grave.

 

It had been one year since they had ridden away with Thorin and now that winter was over word would be coming around any day. Dis’ heart was heavy, fearful. Ever since autumn bad rumors had been about, Dori and Nori having left the group had returned with frightful stories about failure and death, about Kili tortured by Goblins, even the word _Orc plaything_ had been whispered. Luckily Bladvila’s fists had made an end to such talk. Dis had been relieved, in spite of the rough handling of the matter. She knew they could always rely on the children of Azanulbizar, they might not exactly be proper dwarves, with their traditions garbled and their families lost, but they knew where their loyalties lay.

 

Steps at the door announced someone entering the forge; the steps were heavy, armored boots treading the stone ground. Dis did not turn around. “This place is for business,” she said, trying not to sound choked. “if you don’t have business to bring here go away, messages can wait until the evening!” She snapped, wanting so badly to push away the bad news that had to be on the way. She did not want to hear it, no matter what end they had found, famed or infamous… she did not want to hear those words again. She had buried too many already.

 

“That’s definitely a new rule, I remember a time when you had messengers nearly beaten if they waited at the house until after sundown.” A very familiar voice observed.

 

Dis whipped around, unable to believe it. Kili stood in the doorway of the forge… an older, changed version of Kili. He wore full scale armor, braids in his dark locks and… oh, he had changed, she had sent a youth away and a warrior stood before her now. Dis rushed towards him and was pulled into a fierce embrace, two strong arms drawing her close, holding her. A sob escaped her throat, as the nightmare that had worried her heart so much, melted away. If one of them lived… the others would too, they would never separate.

 

“Sh… there’s no need for crying, mother,” Kili whispered and suddenly Dis had to laugh, while she still had tears in her eyes. His voice had deepened and if he worked at it he would have his father’s rumble in no time.

 

Now she also noticed that he had grown a little more, standing so much taller than her, that his chin was atop her head. “Mother, you called me mother…” They had not parted on the best of terms with Kili learning of his true ancestry, of Ida and Thorin and how he had come to be raised by Dis and Dari after Ida had been killed during a raid. He had resented her for the lie.

 

She felt his hands on her shoulders, making her look up at him. “You are my mother, Dis,” Kili said earnestly, his face so serious. “the only mother I ever had, or could wish for. I… I was so stupid when we rode away and I behaved like a spoiled child. It was not right how I treated you and… for that I ask your forgiveness.”

 

Dis smiled at him, how could he suddenly sound so much like Thorin? Like Frèrin? “You earned all forgiveness in the world by coming back alive, Kili.” She said warmly. “Thorin and Fili? Are they here too?”

 

“No, they are still back at Erebor,” Kili explained. “Thorin got severely injured in battle and Fili stayed with him to make sure he gets the rest he needs to recover.”

 

Dis chuckled. “And he is the only one to get that out of him,” she said, knowing that Fili always had been Thorin’s favorite and been able to make his Uncle see reason in moments when Thorin did not want to be reasonable. She straightened up, seeing Dwalin’s familiar figure outside the forge and a smaller person she did not know. “Will you introduce your comrades to me? The long tale… you know the rule, long stories are for after dinner.”

 

Kili stepped aside to make room for a smaller, barefooted figure. Dis bit her lip when she recognized the chainmail the Halfling wore, and the braid that announced him under her son’s protection. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service, my Lady,” The Halfling bowed deeply.

 

“Dis, daughter of Thrain, at yours,” Dis actually clasped his smaller hand in her hardened one. “you must be the expert treasure hunter, my brother mentioned before riding off.”

 

“Bilbo is our Hobbit, our burglar,” Kili said with a warm smile and Dis did not fail to notice, the way the Hobbit seemed to stand taller at that title. Oh, sweet Mahal, he too had fallen to the snare of Durin’s Blood!

 

That evening they sat together by the fire in Stormwyrd Hall and Dis heard the story of their adventures. Trolls and Goblins, Elves and Ghosts, a dragon and a battle, became a fierce and colorful tale, with not a few songs and ballads tucked in. She knew they were entertaining her, that there would be no mention of scars and pain, of interrogations and degradation, in this moment she was the Lady Dis again, and heard of the heroic deeds of her brothers and family. There was sadness in the tale as well. Balin, dear old Balin had fallen in battle. He had been a close friend of hers, helping her run Cardemir when Thorin was away, a friend and second father on whose shoulder she had cried more than once.

 

She reached out to squeeze Dwalin’s arm, to show him compassion, having lost the last family he had. He gave her a grateful nod, but the way his two companions gravitated towards him, told her, that he must have found a measure of help and hold in his friends.

 

“Thorin send us back to tell our people that our home is ours once more,” Kili said, eventually, as the story was ended.

 

Dis frowned. “Kili, happy though I am to hear Erebor is ours again… we can’t just tell the people to pack up and leave. You do not just pack up an entire city and move it. They have lives, businesses, and not just a few are at home in Eriador.” She said, it would take some doing to organize this, not speaking of the long trek across woodlands and wastelands, across the Misty Mountains and the Anduin… she shivered thinking of the long journey that lay before them.

 

“The word is already spreading, my Lady,” the Halfling had spoken up. “and your people… they seemed ecstatic at the news. We met Brea, the tradeswoman and Aife the merchant on our way back here again, they returned to help organize the caravan, while others went to find your people spread out in the lands…”

 

“Please, my name is Dis,” she reminded Bilbo, he was not uncomfortable to call Kili by name, and she was sure he did not call Thorin ‘my Lord’, so she would have none of it. “and Kili… have you already told Brea, and who knows whom else to start packing? Mahal’s mercy, those youngsters will have the whole place upside down within a week. I need to go see her, right away.” She rose, tiredness and worries long forgotten.

 

“Mother, it can wait until morning.” Kili protested. “and Brea is good at organizing things, or she’d never get her caravans handled.”

 

Dis tried to smother her smile, Kili and Fili were closer to the children of Azanulbizar in age and put the same trust into them as her brother did, inspiring them through it. Oh… why had Durin’s House always to do this? “Still, Kili, there are many older dwarves in this city and they will collide with Brea and her people. It cannot wait until sunrise, because I doubt any of them will sleep this night at all.”

 

She went to her room and quickly changed her regular clothing for the leather tunic and harness stored in her chest. The dwarven woman that left Stormwyrd Hall half an hour later to stride down to the city, was not the mournful mother fearing for neither her sons, nor the woman still afraid of the long trek across the wild lands. She was Dis, daughter of Thrain, Princess of Durin’s House and she would see this new wandering of her people well organized and prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
> 
> Okay, I got one more chapter done! Guys, there will be posting slowdown around this weekend, because I won’t be there for a few days, please bear with me.


	5. We must away ere break of day

Grís, wife of Glóin and mistress of Wildfyre Hall oversaw the packing of her household with some detachment, as she stood in the main hall of her home, reading the letter. Glóin was not a man of too many words, and clearly half of this missive had been worded by her brother-in-law, Óin, and he had been the one to include a number of vital and important details, while Glóin’s half of letter was filled with business instructions and other minutiae. But the general message was clear, Erebor had been retaken and she was to pack up house and business to move back to the kingdom of their homeland. It was good news all around, as two of Thorin’s companions the status of her family was secured for now, beyond what their noble ancestry alone could achieve. Grís was very aware that there were very few noble houses still left among the Erebor dwarves, for only a small number had upheld loyalty with the royal house that had fallen so deep. Those who would follow Durin’s blood even in defeat had been commoners and lower ranks. Her own marriage to Glóin had been deemed unwise by many of her extended family in the Iron Hills, but her mother had wisely not put all her trust in only the younger line of Durin’s noble House.

 

She looked up from her reading; it had been Kili who had brought her the letter. Prince Kili she should start calling him, this was not the youth she had scolded for taking Gimli out of the city to teach him all kinds of nonsense. This was a Prince standing in her hall, even though he wore a regular soldier’s armor, and the only indicator of his rank was the braids in his wild hair. And he had not behaved like he once had, when she had been a kind of a distant aunt to him, to whom he would come freely, to speak of his adventures or whom he had brought honeyed cakes on Durin’s Day. No, his manner had changed and he treated her with the respect any Prince would award the Lady Wife of one of his comrades.

 

“You have my gratitude for bringing me word of my husband,” Grís spoke, folding the letter. “to hear that he is well and unharmed comes as a great relief.”

 

Their conversation was interrupted when the door flew open and a red-headed youngster charged into the room. “Kili!” He shouted, rushing to his childhood friend to greet him heartily.

 

Before Grís could scold him and remind him that this was a time to observe proper manners, she already saw the hug Kili had for his younger friend. “Gimli, it’s good to see you. I wondered where you had been.”

 

“I had lessons with old Hilfrim,” Gimli grumbled, looking up at Kili. “you grew still… that is so unfair! How did you get to grow another inch while I am stuck?”

 

Kili laughed. “I take after my father in that, I think. So… now that you are done with Hilfrim, are you excited about the journey? In one week we will be on the road home.”

 

“You better believe it!” Gimli laughed excitedly. “I was so envious when I could not come with you to Erebor. You have to tell me of all your adventures. Did you really fight in a battle?”

 

“Gimli!” Grís interjected. “Prince Kili has other worries than telling you stories. Your father sent a letter with all we need to know until we are at Erebor.” She added a bit more sternly. While Kili… Prince Kili… certainly was friendly towards to Gimli, the difference between them had become more pronounced. Even before there had been a difference, caused by fifteen years age difference and pronounced differences in upbringing. But now it had become a gulf with Kili having grown into a warrior years before his time. He may indulge the youthful exuberance of his childhood friend, but she would not have her house known for unseemly behavior.

 

“Gimli could ride with Dwalin and I, once we leave,” Kili suggested. “he certainly is old enough for it, and he is good with his axe. I kept a spot in my group open for him.”

 

“No!” Grís said even before a hopeful smile could rise on her son’s face. “No,” she softened the words a bit. “it is very friendly that you offer this, Prince Kili, but I would prefer Gimli to stay with me on the long journey and I will need him there.”

 

Gimli made a face, but Kili inclined his head politely. “As you wish, my Lady, he will certainly be a great help to you, during the journey. I bid you goodday.”

 

Grís watched him leave and sighed softly, that had not gone over well. “Mother… why did you say no?” Gimli asked. “You don’t need me to take care of things here.”

 

“Aside from the fact that you can’t ride, you mean?” Grís said. “Gimli, you know that I never would speak a bad word against Durin’s Noble House… but it is not proper for a dwarf so young as you are to ride horses and be part of a warlike venture. A proper dwarfling belongs in the halls of his father, not to leave them before he is old enough.”

 

Gimli looked at her, his eyes wide. “Are you saying that Fili and Kili are not proper dwarves…?” he asked horrified.

 

“I would never be so presumptuous to judge their house,” Grís told him. “they had to face many things very young indeed.” But in her heart she knew what she was thinking, Both Princes had been raised wildly, away from the mountain, consorting with who knew what people out in Eriador. It was not Dis’ fault that she had taken so ill; she had been exhausted beyond belief. But Thorin should have left the boys with someone reliable, someone would have offered, she was sure of that. Not that she was to judge, Thorin was King and it was his decision how he raised his nephews, but maybe it would be better in the long run if he married and sired a proper heir.

 

TRB

 

“We are gathering them in three places, my Lady,” Brea’s hands were leaning on the side of the table with the map. “Here, near Small Delving and at Coldrocks Crossing, where the three caravans will converge, from there we turn East and aim for Windborne Pass.”

 

Dis sipped on a cup of bitter tea, the last days had been restless and not free of problems. She had been swift enough to prevent open strife between the older traditional dwarves and the younger generation. Brea and her kin had begun packing in a heartbeat, neither fearing the road nor minding giving up the shelter of their homes; their energy had shocked some of the older dwarves who expected instructions and orders from Durin’s House. “I agree, Brea,” she said eventually. “Windborne Pass can be crossed with carts and wagons, and is less steep than the other pass roads. I still do not like the idea of turning so far North, but it is the shortest way around Mirkwood for us.”

 

“If I saw a way how to get half the carts over the High Pass, I would say we take the Men-i-Naugrim,” The tradeswoman agreed. “The elves might be annoying but they can be dealt with if necessary. But if we were to take High Pass we would need to forgo all carts and wagons, travelling on foot with pack ponies only.”

 

“No, we cannot do that,” Dis had thought of this before. “There are too many that could not walk all the way, not to mention the children. There will be enough things that will have to be left behind already.”

 

Brea shrugged. “We see to it that no one has to leave the tools of his trade, nor vital provisions, beyond that… leave the furniture and other things here. Who knows when our people will return here and need them again?”

 

Surprised Dis looked at the younger woman. “Do you really think there will be another time our people return here, Brea?” She asked softly. “I should hope that our people are going back to Erebor for good.”

 

Brea actually smiled at her, a gentle, comforting smile. “Not in my lifetime, maybe not in many lifetimes, my Lady. But… something in me whispers that Cardemir may one day be a refuge to our people again. And I know I was grateful for the old things we found when we arrived here. I shall gladly leave some of my things behind and hope that they will prove useful when such a time arises.”

 

“I still feel bad about re-sealing the gates,” Dis said. “It will not allow anyone to remain in Cardemir.”

 

“As it should be,” Brea said firmly. “Except for a few talkers and malcontents like Nori and his brother, nearly no one wants to stay anyway. Our King has called us; this is not the time to dally. And with the gates sealed again, this place is preserved for another generation.”

 

“It really does not bother you to leave it all behind?” Dis asked. “You worked hard to build up your trade, your contacts, your partners… you are leaving your entire life, Brea.”

 

“Give a girl a pony, a few sacks of apples and the location of the next settlements and she can start a trade,” Brea laughed. “My Lady, it may be change, more change than I expected to come my way anytime soon, but… it can be done. We did it before, and we can do it again. Your brother has never led us astray, all that he did has been for the betterment of our race, and Erebor will not be all that different.” She approached Dis, feeling a little daring, as she touched her arm. “You seem deeply worried, my Lady.”

 

“It is nothing, Brea… you would most likely laugh at me.” Dis said. “But I dread the road before us, to be wandering again. This place might not have been much, but it was a stable life, a home… a life worth more than all the gold in Erebor.” She turned to look at the younger woman. “I… I remember the mountain from my youth and I wonder… how can we ask you, and all the others who have never seen it, to just go there?”

 

Brea smiled warmly at the Princess, Dis had always been caring, always protected the populace of Cardemir, she worried for them like a mother would, or a true Queen. “We will go wherever your House rules, my Lady. Be it here or in Erebor, and should you ever call for to retake one of the kingdoms of old, you better expect us to show up. Home is neither a cave nor house, but with those who led us through the storm.”

 

TRB

 

Bilbo hurried down the long hallway, his eyes on the ancient stone signs that marked the various passageways in the halls, pointing directions. He could not read them all, not by a long shot, but he could decipher some and for the rest he simply remembered what the signs were supposed to point to. He was grateful he had always memorized script quickly, or he would have been lost in this place. He came to Ironheart Crossing where a number of ponies were just packed and prepared for being led out. “Oi! Bilbo!” Narvi called out, having recognized Bilbo’s soft step on the ancient stone ground. “I hate to put another mess on the lists but we have another four carts and seven ponies going with us, there is no one from this crossing staying in Ered Luin after all.”

 

Quickly Bilbo procured the leatherbound tome from his satchel and sat down on the stairs of an abandoned house, finding the pages for Ironheart Crossing. “Alright then, one after the other please with names, family and load…”

 

They lined up one after the other to give him the information to bring back to Kili. During the last week they had gotten used to Bilbo’s presence, to him being assigned helping to sort through the various lists of different groups. Stories that he had fought in battle by Prince Kili’s side had been circulating quickly enough and within two days the dwarves did not find it strange anymore that Bilbo was assisting Kili on the task, he would often be stopped by dwarves in the city and asked to carry messages back to Stormwyrd hall. “It is good you all decided to come,” Bilbo said, while he wrote down the names of the families in a clean hand. “the city will be sealed once we leave, so no one can stay here.”

 

“Is that so?” a painfully familiar voice cut into the proceedings. “How magnanimous of the ‘Prince’ to decide to rob the people who live here of their homes.”

 

Bilbo looked up, putting the steel-nibbled pen aside for a moment. “There is not anyone staying behind anyway, Dori. Those few who don’t want to go to Erebor, have relations in the other settlements in the southern ridges.”

 

The grey haired dwarf snorted. “What would you know of it, burglar?”

 

Bilbo closed the book with a loud clap, resting it beside him on the empty stairs. “Dori, I know you are pained over what happened,” he said, remembering that Dori’s brother had never escaped from Goblin Town. “And I understand you want to lash out at anyone who seems guilty. But… don’t ruin your own lives over it. You could still come with us, build a new life in Erebor.”

 

“Is he giving you trouble, Bilbo?” Another voice cut in, and the Halfling recognized Bladvila, who had led some remaining people from Azunahr’s Hold up here, to join with the larger group.

 

Dori snorted. “My brother and I are leaving,” he declared. “I came so the burglar could scratch us off the lists. We do not want anything to do with this madness.”

 

“Finally, it will nice to have some peace and quiet without having to hear your nagging at every hour of the day.” Bladvila said, squaring his shoulders and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

 

Bilbo jumped up. “Bladvila, you are not helping. Dori and Nori lost their brother, they are mourning… and they should not be pushed further away.” He said fiercely. “We all make mistakes and we all are grateful if we do not get judged for them too harshly.”

 

Much to Bilbo’s own surprise the warrior with the wild ponytail gave in. “You are a good man, Bilbo. If you can talk them into staying I shan’t give them a hard time.”

 

But Dori was not swayed. “Do not strain your _reputation_ on our behalf, Halfling,” the dwarf grumbled. “scratch us of your damned lists and we will be gone. We have other relations to turn to.”

 

“Are those on the wrong side of the blanket too?” Narvi, the blind bladesmith asked softly. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

 

Bilbo sighed, seeing he could not win this fight, he sat down again, crossing out Dori and Nori’s names from the list, along with a note of when and why he had taken them off their records. “Narvi,” he said in a smaller voice. “was it really necessary to antagonize them so? I mean… I get annoyed too when they slander Thorin and Kili… but they lost a brother, go easy on them.”

 

The white-haired dwarf sat down on the stone balustrade by the stairs. “You have a good heart, little one,” he said with a friendly smile. “but… we do not take well to our King being slandered. Maybe we take more pride in him because we lost too much to take pride in during the wandering years. I will not claim that Thorin is perfect, I had enough arguments with the man to know he can be as cantankerous as a cat in a new moon, but whatever grievances we had that were between him and me and nothing to be spread about in the streets.”

 

The Hobbit understood what Narvi was saying, Thorin and his family were the glue keeping this torn nation together, they were the one thing all of them agreed upon. Small wonder that Thorin was so moody at times, with all that on his shoulders, Bilbo thought.  He finished the lists, adding all the details needed to them. “I had better bring them to Kili right away,” he said. “he went down to Deepholme Bridges and will be glad to hear you are all coming.”

 

Bilbo’s way down to the deepest parts of the crumbling city took longer than planned, because several dwarf groups stopped him to ask to add names to the lists and to ask him if he could convey this or that message to Kili. The Hobbit listened earnestly, made notes and in some cases already knew the answers to questions that had already come up earlier in the day. Sometimes he was surprised how the dwarves accepted his words and his involvement in this matter, but Bilbo had hardly the time to stop and think about it. He hurried on, across a half shattered bridge and into the district that was semi-buried under a cave in long ago and had deep waters swirling in the rifts and cracks of their part of the city. He saw Kili stand with a group of dwarves that looked much like miners, if he could judge by the tools they carried.

 

“Forgive me, you must be the young Halfling in service of the Prince,” a voice addressed him from the side.

 

Bilbo turned around to find himself face to face with an old dwarf, so ancient her shoulders were bowed and she leaned heavily on an ancient battleaxe. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he bowed slightly, wondering if the old woman had any family to aid her in the long journey ahead of her people. “What can I do for you?”

 

“Could you be so kind as to carry a message for me?” the old woman asked. “I would speak to the Prince directly, but he has his hands full with all the people from the mines and my message is a simple one.”

 

“But of course,” Bilbo said with a smile. “what do you wish for him to know?” Most likely it would be another family added to the ever growing list of people deciding to move out.

 

“Tell him that should he truly intend to seal this city as it was when we came here, and should not yet have a sleepless guardian… tell him that Hanar of Deepholme Bridges would be honored indeed to perform this service for Durin’s House.”

 

TRB

 

Far away on the other side of the world the first rays of the spring sun shone on the ruins of Dale. Bard ducked under the remains of a stone arch, evading the black moss that was spreading there now that the snow melted. The dragon’s mighty carcass had not yet even taken to rot; it lay the very way it had fallen. Not that the bowman found that idea especially endearing, especially when he saw how close the dead beast lay to one of the cisterns.

 

A movement on the other side of the corpse startled him, Bard reached to his back and drew Wrathbringer, the sword had served him well in battle, and now it softly reverberated in his hands, like it was touched by an invisible echo. Something was jumping, at first Bard only saw shadows, like black shapes jumping, but they made a familiar screeching noise. Rats! But they were much too large for ordinary sewer denizens. A dozen huge black rats raced at him, jumping to attack, he brought the blade about, each hit killing one more of the beasts, but more came. Dozens of them swarming out of the old water systems, all of them coming towards him, Bard spun around, fighting them off, sending their black corpses flying through the air with each new strike. One rat jumped, biting his arm, he shook the thing off and killed it.

 

“Bard!” A deep voice rang out from behind him and moments later he was not alone anymore, but another warrior joining the fight and from him the rats seemed to flee.

 

When the last of the rats was dead or ran away, Bard sheathed his sword, his arm was bleeding from the rat’s bite. Beside him Thorin still held Orcrist ready. “Thank you,” Bard’s said, still panting.

 

“Your arm, was that one of them?” Thorin asked, putting his sword away, a curt and commanding gesture pointing Bard to show him the wound.

 

“It’s just a rat’s bite, I’ll have it cleaned and that’s that.” Bard felt a bit embarrassed that the Dwarven King would make a fuss about something so simple.

 

“I doubt that will be enough,” Thorin had pulled Bard’s torn leather bracer away to reveal the black bite wound, dark lines were spreading into the skin from it and the arm felt numb. “Sit down,” Thorin ordered.

 

Bard’s eyes widened when he saw the bite, he followed the order to sit. “What is that?” he asked, realizing that some kind of poison was in the wound. “Did these rats drink from the dragon’s blood?”

 

Thorin clasped Bard’s wrist, forcing him to hold his arm still, the dwarf held a short dagger in the other hand. “It is very possible, the dragon blood has done worse to others,” he said grimly. “this will hurt and it may damage your shield arm but it is the only way to get it out of you before it spreads.”

 

Bard could tell the dwarf knew something of this, and he trusted Thorin. “Do it.” He gritted his teeth when the blade cut into his arm, opening the wounds wide, blood began to flow freely, and Bard had a hard time to bite back a howl when the dagger cut into his muscles. “You know what to do… how…” he pushed the words out, trying to somehow distract himself from the pain.

 

Thorin repeated the star shaped cuts for every teeth mark on the arm, blood smearing the ground before them. “When my ancestors escaped the nightfall over Moria, they wandered North, founding a new realm under the Ered Mithrin, under the mountains men call the Twin’s Guard.” He replied to Bard’s question, as he continued his work. The dwarf put the dagger aside and placed his hand on a broken piece of stone beside them and a pale blue flame rose from the stone itself. Thorin held his dagger into the fire and the flame jumped on the edge.

 

Bard knew what this would be, and he blanched, not knowing how he should take this without screams or visible pain. “But… that’s at the gates of withered heath, where the great dragons live.” he whispered, focusing solely on Thorin’s voice, on what he was saying.

 

“True,” Thorin brought the blade with the blue flames close to the first wound, his strong grip not allowing Bard to move away. “It is their breeding grounds of old, and the place they return to when their time of dying comes. My people prospered there, for a while, the mines well worth it. But eventually, two Princes chose to leave, after their father was slain, one of them moving east into the Iron Hills and the other came here, to Erebor.”

 

Searing pain shot through Bard’s arm when the blue flame ate into the wounds, scorching cold and like pure acid eating his flesh away. Tears shot into his eyes and he stifled a pained yell in his throat. Thorin’s talking made it a little easier, helping him to focus on something else. “But…” Bard tried to not let his voice break, but not quite managing. “Even if you heard of this… _you_ know exactly what to do… you must have seen this before.”

 

“I have once been to the withered heath,” Thorin replied. “It was a dangerous decision and one that nearly cost me my life, much as it was necessary to go there. Had it not for a brave friend, I may never have returned.”

 

The pain soared and in the end a small scream slipped from Bard’s throat, the pain too intense. When it ended and he looked down, he could see the cut open bite mark on his arm, sealed in a pale burn along his skin, the black lines had vanished and he could fully feel his hand again. In fact, he felt it too much. “Is there any part of Middle Earth that you have not wandered?” he asked, still awed by how far Thorin had travelled.

 

“I never went into the east,” Thorin said, putting out the blue fire. “I did not have Dwalin’s steely courage to deal with the Eastern peoples and their ways and I will gladly never set foot into another elven kingdom.”

 

Bard ducked his head, trying to regain some measure of composure and force the pain out of his voice. “Thank you, Thorin…” He knew that if that wound had spread he might well have lost his arm, or even worse.

 

The dwarf shook his head, his hand clasping Bard’s shoulder. “Why are you trying so desperately to save your pride, Bard? You don’t have anything to prove, and most certainly not to me.”

 

The warrior from Dale looked down, evading Thorin’s gaze. He had grown up with too many stories about this dwarven Prince to not sometimes feel a bit like walking beside a legend. “If these beasts came from the water systems… then the dragon blood is in there. That seals any attempt to rebuild the city in its old spot.” He said, changing topics. “We had already feared that the dragon corpse might be a problem… but this means we can’t go back here.”

 

“Your people have been worried about this topic all winter.” Thorin said, getting to his feet, his eyes watchfully studying the ruins, looking for dangers. “It is not like we will throw you out of the mountain with the first spring day.”

 

“Thorin,” Bard forced himself to stand, leaning against the broken archway of the city that had once been his people’s home. “We know that you are too generous to throw us out, but we need to start up now that spring has begun. We need to get farming off the ground; both our peoples will need the food come winter, and that means we are talking about settlements for the farmers and a city for the rest, the center of it all. Dale heights were one of the few well defensible spots here, neither Raven Hill nor Winter’s Howe are large or elevated enough.”

 

“Have you ever thought of only having the farmers build their villages and move everyone else underground?” Thorin asked, studying the tall man. “No fortress you can build here can beat the safety of the Mountain.”

 

“You… you mean Erebor?” Bard asked, startled. Even with all the friendship of men and dwarves in the past, no dwarven kingdom had ever allowed men in their halls for long.

 

“Aye, the Northern flank of the mountain is practically untouched as of yet; we could expand the city that way and create halls and quarters for your people.”

 

Bard fell silent, his healthy arm finding some hold in the rough wall behind him. This was…unexpected and certainly unheard of. The archer was not thinking of his own station in this, there could be only one King under the Mountain and he could live with that. Still… the offer to allow them inside the great fortress city, allowing their populace that was not farmers to live there and thus being the place where their farmers would flee if war came to this land… it was an offer no dwarf had ever made to men, or any other species. “Why?” he asked softly. “Why would you offer this? No dwarf, none of your ancestors… I doubt there ever has been a city where dwarves and men lived together.”

 

“No city, a few villages though,” Thorin replied. “Our peoples have gone a long way together, Bard,” the dwarven leader spoke on. “from the day Erebor and Dale were founded to the day the dragon came… our doom was yours as well and like us you were left without help or home for too long. And still… when the time came you came through for us, you had little to win when you came to aid us, but you still did because of a friendship sworn by our fathers.”

 

Thorin paused, his cold blue eyes meeting Bard’s greyish green, the dwarf had seen much of men, good and bad, low and noble, petty and proud, and he had learned to judge them well. Maybe he would not be as willing to trust, had he not seen one of their kind lay down his life to save two dwarves. “I have seen men do great things, and I have seen dwarves do proud things, I have absolute trust that both our people can do well on their own, but I believe we can do better together. A storm has woken, Bard, you heard that Easterling, the day will come when the black storm rises again from the East and I would face it much gladder knowing my friends were beside me.”

 

There was honesty in Thorin’s words, and a vision. Bard could see the dwarven King truly meant what he said… and it would be a greater future for Bard’s people than all they might achieve alone. “We’d be honored to be part of the Kingdom under the Mountain,” Bard said, offering a hand to seal their words, the warrior’s handshake was firm and for a moment they stood silently, none of them having the words to express their thoughts.

 

“The East worries you,” Bard observed eventually. “the doom brewing there might wait another millennia to be upon us.”

 

“I doubt it,” Thorin replied. “What I saw in Mirkwood… this was not the trace of a fleeting shadow, Bard. This was darkness unleashed, ghosts walking freely and the Shadow’s servants spinning their webs. What was still weak when Angmar rose and fell is now strong enough to spread its wings again. It was driven from Mirkwood… but where will it turn? I fear the threat evicted from the elven forests will be visited upon another land soon.” His eyes went beyond the broken walls of Dale, to the eastern horizon. “We are one of the most eastern cities of the North, Bard. When danger comes Dain will close the gates to the Iron Hills and sit it out if he can, and I’d not call Mirkwood a bastion any day. It will be up to us to create a fortress here as a refuge on the day the floodgates open.”

 

Bard remembered many things Hagil and Aiken had said about the East, about the vast lands under the sway of dark powers and he knew Thorin was right, much as he wished it was not so. And the people of this land, where would they turn to when the storm came? There was no other place but Erebor. “Then we will build that bastion, one that no enemy shall overrun easily.”

 

A faint, dizzy feeling forced Bard to sit down again, now that the calm settled in he felt each spot on his arm and his strength gave in. Thorin had reached for his arm to support him. “I will have Fili bring you back to the Mountain, you need to rest.” He stated.

 

“What brought here in the first place?” Bard asked, trying to steady himself.

 

“I asked Lachanar to track some creatures that attacked the night watch by the postern,” Thorin told him. “and he is not back yet.”

 

TRB

 

Dis stood beside the gates of Cardemir watching the last of their people leave the mountain that had been their shelter for decades. Down in the long valley with the ancient stone statues the trek was forming. She had put Brea in charge of the populace and Dwalin as the warmaster was in charge of the overall caravan. Kili was still down below, along with Bilbo, making sure no one was left behind, once the gates were sealed only the correct words spoken by one of Durin’s line would reopen them. Kili had to do the actually sealing of the gate, a few stragglers came out of the gate and Dis pointed them towards the right parts of the trek, to the dwarves responsible for their respective groups.

 

Among the last that came out Dis saw an ancient dwarven woman, leaning heavily on the battered shaft of an axe. She walked slowly, the ache of her old body clear in every step she took. Two youngsters walked with her, both a little younger than Dis’ own boys, they were ready to support the old woman but she would not have any of it. Dis approached them, worried. This dwarf woman was too old for any kind of journey. But the old one only bowed slightly. “Do not worry yourself with me, dear heart,” she said in a surprisingly strong voice. “I will say my farewells to my great-grandchildren and then I will go back below to sleep in the stone. One always has to stay behind, and I long for the silence and the rest in the stone.”

 

Dis paled, she recalled Thorin speaking of an ancient sleeper he had found when he had first opened the gates of Cardemir. What did this seal entail? “Of course,” she said. “I will not disrupt your words to your family.” It would be the height of rudeness to disrupt her farewells.

 

The old one led her two boys a few steps away, where she could sit down on a rock. Dis watched them walk, noticing that the boys both had the dark long hair that was so prevalent in many of Durin’s folk, but she could not place them with any clan she knew. They must be in their late sixties, only shyly sporting a beard yet. One of them stood taller than the other, keeping his brother protectively close. They both stood quietly before their matriarch and the ancient dwarf woman, gently touched their shoulders with her aged hands. “Ánar, Hlévan, we must not tarry too long,” the old one began to speak. “by morning the dwarves will be leaving Belegost to return to Erebor and you will be joining them. I cannot come with you, my journey ends here.”

 

“But why?” The younger of the boys, Hlévar, spoke up. “Ánar and me have a pony, you could ride, we will walk and take care of you, great-mother.”

 

The old woman gently touched the ebony locks beside his face. “No, little warrior, I do not have the strength for another journey, I stayed longer than I should have already.” Gently she took their hands with her aged ones. “When I was born I was Hanar of Silver Deeps, six brothers had I, five of them long in their graves in the Grey Mountains, and the sixth worse than dead – he became a traitor. When a warrior took my hand I became Hanar of Stormvoice Pinnacle, my husband dying the same day as our great King whom the dragon took, his body among the bones of the dragons in that accursed vale. With four small sons I came to our new home at Erebor, where I was Hanar of Deepiron mine. All four of my sons were sent into danger, into the battles of King Thrór, three of them died and buried in the northern reaches by their comrades, one to return home to continue to serve to the day the dragon came. He died with many others under Smaug’s wings and with his children, my grand-children I escaped the burning Erebor, raising them on the long journey into Exile where they called me Hanar the Grim. Vragi and Helvrán, your father and uncle fought for their King in Azanulbizar, with your Uncle to never return. And Helvrán, your brave father died when he went to search for your mother who vanished in a village of men. And thus I raised you, here in Ered Luin, where they call me Hanar the Crone.”

 

She squeezed their hands, to make the boys look at her. “I do not tell you this to make you sad, it is not a story for tears or mourning but to make you understand. Such is the life of a warrior, we fight when called by our King, and we fight fiercely. We die at our King’s command we do so proudly. Your Uncle fell by the side of King Thrór in Azanulbizar, there is no higher honor a warrior can find. Do you understand me?”

 

Both boys nodded solemnly and Hanar smiled at them. “Good. I have little time to tell you more, but a little is there still, some things about our people you must never forget. First – Mahal our great maker was a creator, and unto us he bestowed his talent. Do never trust a dwarf that has no craft, no matter how minor it might be. A dwarf that does not know how to make things has lost his true soul already and become a destroyer. Such are the butchers and Goblin-allies that have brought dishonor to our people since time beyond reckoning. I have taught you both a craft, always keep working in it, no matter where your path leads and be it to the highest honors of war.

 

Second – Never bow to anyone save Durin’s blood, true dwarves will only bend knee for Durin’s line and them alone. Let no other noble titles and other lofty claims of ancestries impress you, they are as unimportant as the last tinker’s bloodline. Do neither bow nor follow the Lords of the other six kingdoms, a true warrior has only one allegiance.

 

Third – there will be dwarves that will tell you that gold and comforts are worth more than honor, more than obligation and duty. Avoid these cowards at all costs! Let them say their piece and go the other way. No gold, no comfort can replace lost honor and lost pride.

 

Lastly – it is better to have a short and brave life than one that is long and cowardly. Stand up for your honor, fight for your people and protect those weaker than yourself, fight for your King and fight the battles others can’t.”

 

Hanar reached for the bundle she had carried from the mountain, taking two old dwarven swords from them. “Once there were seven of these,” she said. “a gift by the great King of Moria to seven brothers who had served him well. Five now lie buried in the graves of warriors, two are left for you to carry into your battles. Wield them with honor and pride, Ánar and Hlévar of Steeldeep Hold.”

 

The boys took the blades, each of them embracing Hanar in turn. She held them close for a moment, then pulled back. “And now go, warriors do not tarry.” She reminded them, sending them away to their pony. Slowly she reached for the shaft of her battered axe, pushing herself to her feet, slowly limping back to the gates.

 

Dis had watched the whole scene unfold, her heart torn when she watched the goodbye the ancient dwarf woman gave her great-grandchildren. She must have long outlived the lifespan of any dwarf! She watched as Hanar reached the gate, where Kili stood beside the empty doorway into the dark. The old woman knelt before him and Kili touched her grey hair, bestowing a blessing on the ancient one. Tears in her eyes Hanar rose and walked back into the dark tunnel.

 

“Farewell Hanar of Dreamer’s Deep, may your line never be forgotten,” Dis heard Kili speak the blessing when the gate closed behind her and the seal shut the passage.

 

Bilbo had waited with his pony and Kili’s horse ready, he had of course seen Hanar the day she had asked him to carry the message, and later when Kili had spoken to her to make sure she knew what her decision meant. Now it was done, the gates were shut and would not open in a long time, maybe not even in this age. And Hanar would sleep under the stones, dreaming of her people until the gates opened again.

 

Kili joined him and took the reins of the horse; he mounted swiftly, spurring the horse to catch the pony up only a little ahead of them. “Ánar, Hlevár, wait please.”

 

The two young warriors stopped at once, startled. “My Lord?” Ánar asked, trying to sound confident.

 

“My group is still a man short, I had to reassign some warriors to protect another group of carts,” Kili said. “and I am loath to assign my men the extra load of watches. Would you consider joining us?”

 

Bilbo could see how the two young dwarves stood taller hearing this. “It would be an honor, my Prince,” again Ánar had spoken.

 

“Good, Bilbo here will show you to the group, listen to what he says,” Kili said, a short gesture asking Bilbo to take charge of them. The Hobbit gave him a quick smile and guided his pony beside the boy’s, leading them towards the head of the column where their warrior group was assigned.

 

From the saddle of her pony Dis had watched the scene. “They are too young, Kili.” She pointed out when she reached her son. “I know we are short on fighters to protect the populace, but this is… I do not like it.”

 

“I had planned that spot for someone much younger,” Kili said honestly. “I had thought it would be Gimli, but Grís thinks it is improper for him to run wild.” He shrugged. “Those two will do just fine.” He nudged his horse to full trot and followed Bilbo.

 

Dis’ fist curled around the reins of her pony. “Grís you fool,” she grumbled, intending to find the time to have a good talk with Glóin’s wife before they would reach Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
> 
> Okay, I got one more chapter done! Guys, there will be posting slowdown around this weekend, because I won’t be there for a few days, please bear with me. 
> 
> The names Ánar and Hlevár I snagged from the same part of the Edda Tolkien took a couple of dwarf names from.


	6. A whisper at night

Spring of the year 2942 of the Third Age saw the strangest things all across Eriador, the dwarves left the land they had come to a century ago and took to the road. Most inhabitants of Eriador were used to the dwarves coming and going, wandering off and returning, it was simply their nature as people would say, but seeing them leave entirely was something unheard of. Instead of coming to the spring markets and fairs, they packed up shop and turned east, mines closed and entire settlements that had grudgingly been tolerated by the hill men were abandoned within only days.

 

The farmers coming to the fair at Coldrocks Crossing were shocked and amazed to see hundreds of dwarves wander east, with carts and horses they went, much like they had come a century before. They bade no goodbyes, nor did they explain themselves, and if they were asked, strange stories began to spread, of a King having risen in the East, of a dragon defeated and of a mighty battle having been fought the preceding autumn and some people looked at each other strangely whenever the name of the King was mentioned.

 

Thorin? They thought, wandering Thorin with his two small boys… the blacksmith with the marvelous skill with anything metal… the gruff dwarf that had the maidens swoon over him wherever he came… he was supposed to be a king? It could not be, many thought it was a story the dwarves made up, and a few curious ones who went out of their way to watch the long trek of the dwarves reported they were led by a Prince of their people, a warrior in a magnificent armor riding a white horse, and that he had no resemblance to Thorin and his boys. Others claimed loudly that it was Thorin himself… the ensuing arguments and brawls spiced up many a springtime market, distracting people at least temporarily from the problem of lacking blacksmiths everywhere. Meanwhile the dwarven trek moved eastward, gathering up all the groups leaving Eriador, until the whole long caravan reached Windbreaker Valley under the pass road of the Misty Mountains.

 

Balakan stopped his horse when he saw the huge camp in Windbreaker Valley, he had known the dwarves were on the move, the Rangers had observed their movements for weeks, but seeing the entire population move like this came as a shock nevertheless. The grim Ranger was something of a leader among his kind, since Arathorn had been killed seven years ago. When he was stopped by the camp guards – they had too few warriors that much was obvious – he told them he wished to see Kili. “We will inform the Prince,” one of the guards told him. “you may wait here.”

 

Balakan dismounted and resigned himself to waiting, contrary to others he was not surprised at this tidbit, he had known that Thorin was of Durin’s blood, he had shown many of the telltale signs of the legendary dwarven house. Maybe it was that Dunedain were less easily fooled when it came to Royal Blood in exile. He saw a rider approach; it was indeed a white horse and a woodlander horse at that. Kili dismounted, handing the reins to one of the guards. “Report to Dwalin, Tarvi and Regin, he is moving the first groups up the pass road, there will be no stopping for the entire train until we are across.” He said, and some of the dwarf guards headed off.

 

“Moving in alternating groups, never stopping the whole caravan only groups resting while you make the crossing?” Balakan asked. “This will be a tiring march for your people, to say the least.”

 

“It is the only way it can be done,” Kili replied. “There is not enough room up there to camp the entire train of wagons, and we would be too exposed that way. But you hardly came here to discuss our moving away, Balakan.”

 

“Not really,” The Ranger admitted, he had known Kili for a long time, having met the dwarf when he was wandering with his Uncle, and later with his brother. “though the Lone Lands will be getting worse with all of you leaving, you were the hardest populace in these parts. I wanted to know if it was really true.”

 

Kili looked back west, over the hills towards where the shadow of the Ered Luin was vaguely visible against the crisp blue skies. “This was never our land, Balakan,” he said softly. “nor ours to stay in beyond the barest necessity.” He turned back to the conversation, masking his earlier feelings. “The Lone Lands have been a mess since Angmar crumbled but they are your people’s task, to resettle and bring peace to.”

 

Balakan shook his head; there was no Arnor left, nor the strength to rebuild their homeland. “There is another reason I came here, Kili.” He said. “Gilraen of Rivendell asked me to bring you a letter. She said it was for your Uncle Thorin… and she asked you to give it to him before the coronation. For whatever reason she feels it would be inappropriate if it was read after.” He did not know what the widow of their former chieftain had written to the dwarven King, and he could not help but wonder.

 

Kili took the letter. “I will deliver it safely, you have my word.” He promised. “Could you please tell Gilraen from me that I apologize for not having returned to Rivendell like I said I would, but there is simply no chance to move our caravan over High Pass.”

 

“I will make sure she knows,” Balakan’s frown deepened, something seemed to link Gilraen to this Dwarven House and he began to wonder what this might be. But this was not the time to wonder. “Kili, we have not always liked each other, but… good luck to you and your people. I hope this homeland of yours proves all that you hope it to be.”

 

“Good luck to you Balakan, and to your people,” Kili replied, mounting his horse once more. “may you find your way home as well one day.”

 

TRB

 

The Goblin’s shouts echoed terrifyingly between the rocks, in the night it was hard to see more than moving shapes, if anything at all. Kili dismounted and jumped on a high rock, racing along the strewn boulders towards a vantage position, while the others advanced down towards the pinned down group of their trek. It was the fifth night in the mountains and the long drawn out chain of groups of their caravan had proven vulnerable to attacks, especially with their lack of warriors. Kili had split his group between those staying with their assigned wagon group and some with whom he came to the aid of attacked groups and those groups in need of assistance. It condemned those with him to grueling long hours in the saddle, back and forth along the jagged line of Windborne Pass Road. He had lost count how many such attacks had happened, the Goblins always tried to pick off small groups and with their warriors spread so thin, often had a chance of succeeding.

 

Standing on a rock pillar, Kili raised his black bow and began to pick off the moving shadows, without his keen eyes well-adjusted to the darkness he would have stood no chance and would have been forced to place his shots by ear, because Goblins were a notoriously noisy bunch. Once he had reduced the numbers of the Orcs hiding in the ledges, he jumped down to where his comrades were fending off the Orcs around the carts. It was only thirty or so Goblins, but it still had them outnumbered, in terms of warriors. The dwarves of the carts had defended themselves well, but there was a difference between defending their carts and families and weeding out the raiders.

 

Kili drew his sword, tackling the Goblins from the opposite side that his fighters had arrived, for a short time he stood against several at once but they were quickly weeded out. He did not even think about it, his sword cutting through them, each new attack a quicksilver reflex, always moving, always advancing, and leaving a trail of corpses behind him.

 

From the corner of his eye he saw Ánar having raced to the aid of two young dwarflings that the Goblins were dragging away. The young fighter had freed the children who were scrambling back to the wagons, but Ánar was cut off by five Goblins and fought with his back to a rock. Kili sprinted towards him, beheading the Goblin that had just raised his spear to thrust into Ánar’s side, whirling around he stabbed the next Goblin. Ánar made good work of the break he got and killed the next one, within another minute they had made short work of them. “Good work,” Kili said as they hastened back. “I had not seen them grab the children.”

 

They reached the carts, where the fighting was over as well. Two people from this group had been killed in the raid, some were injured, luckily there were no severe wounds and the group would have to move on without time to say much more than a quick blessing for their lost ones. When the carts were rolling again, Kili already heard noise further up, another group was under attack. It would be a long crossing, it seemed.

 

TRB

 

The line of dead animals was not a particularly appealing one, a huge black rat, a black polecat, and an overgrown black mountain goat, along with two squirrels. Lachanar had placed them on the grass outside the ruins, squatting down beside them. “These here,” he pointed to the rat and the goat, “drank infested water, I have no doubt about that. But the others,” his hand indicated the polecat and the squirrels, “they remind me more of some creatures living in Southern Mirkwood, where the Shadow of Dol Guldur touched the woods.”

 

Thorin looked at the different animals, none of them quite like its natural shape should be. “Could the infested water have caused all these changes? The dragon carried a touch of the same shadow after all.” He asked, he had never seen the creatures of Southern Mirkwood that close, but Lachanar had spent the last century fighting them.

 

“There are differences, Thorin,” Lachanar took the paw of the dead rat. “see these claws? That’s the dragon’s blood… we’ve seen it before.” Their eyes met and Thorin nodded, remembering the Withered Heath, the valley of bones and their first meeting so very long ago. Lachanar turned the dead squirrel around to reveal the vile, sickly twisted, unnatural face of the animal. “and that’s the hand of Dol Guldur, it turned all things twisted and evil… deliberately evil, not just wild, feral and deadly, but truly evil.”

 

Thorin would have called both deformations evil but he understood what Lachanar was saying, the rats may be wild and dangerous but they were still animals, while the squirrel was truly mean, holding a spark of evil in its very mind. “Did you get scratched or bitten?” he asked.

 

“No, I was careful,” Lachanar said with a smile. “if the blue fire teaches you one thing it is to never get bitten again.”

 

Looking down Thorin did not hide the amused smile, their first meeting, the beginning of their friendship had been much like this, fraught with danger and both of them not really wanting it any other way. “We need to clean away the dragon’s corpse,” he said eventually. “to end the poisoning of the land. But… what brought the creatures from Mirkwood here?”

 

“Maybe they were drawn to the tainted water, Thorin.” Lachanar said. “You saw the valley of bones up in the Withered Heath, how the land was changed around the bones of all those dragons who came there to die. And the blood in the water might have created the kind of darkness that lures creatures of the Shadow in. After Dol Guldur burned, they may be driven from their dens and wandering. Not an idea I find appealing.”

 

“Neither do I,” Thorin replied. “Having the escapees from Mirkwood here is not an addition I wish for Erebor, present company excluded.”

 

Now it was Lachanar’s turn to smile, his eyes sparkling with silent laughter. “I can survey the grounds more thoroughly; see if there is a center to their presence… something that draws them here. Sometimes it only takes a small well of darkness to create a problem. Unfortunately most of Elrohir’s riders are still needed with other tasks, or I would ask for their assistance.” Elves could sense the presence of the Shadow much faster than any other tracker might.

 

“Much as I appreciate Elrohir’s aid and friendship, I would prefer this remained in the hands of those belonging to the Mountain,” Thorin replied firmly. “I know you can find the source of this, Lachanar.”

 

Lachanar understood what remained unsaid, this was a matter of pride and might reveal a weakness of the Mountain, two things that Thorin would not easily share with strangers. The elven warrior was touched Thorin counted him amongst his own, and he would not let his friend down. “Then I better begin my search.” He said, turning back to the ruins, the key was somewhere underground, that was where he had sensed the presence most strongly.

 

TRB

 

“For all the damage the dragon did, the mines got the least of it,” Bofur said, the miner standing with Fili in what had once been the Master of the Pit, the head miner’s, office. A huge map of the mines and the mountain was engraved into the stone wall of the room, the reason why the meeting was held here. “We will have to do something for the support structures over here and here, but otherwise we should be able to get mining back into operation soon after our people arrive. Luckily the water systems survived with minimal damage or some of these mines would have sunk below the waterline, like they did in Moria.”

 

Fili smiled a little, Bofur had thrown himself with all his heart into this task, spending most of the winter in the mines. “This is good news, Bofur, you are doing a wonderful job. I had no idea how extensive these mines were… and the Ered Luin was not small.”

 

Bofur laughed. “The Ered Luin was your regular mountain of Iron, Copper and some Silver, my Prince,” he winked at Fili, knowing that using the title always flustered both brothers a bit. “nothing too much out of the ordinary. This mountain, though… that’s a horse of an entirely different color. I’d have never thought to see a contact aureole of this size and shape anywhere outside the Misty Mountains.”

 

Fili had heard that term before. “You mean that the material in the mountain was changed because of lava pressing up from below?” he asked, to make sure. None of them were miners, albeit they had the knowledge any dwarf had about mountains.

 

“No, that still is good but ordinary,” Bofur said, bouncing on his feet. “Fili, long before the First Age, the Dark Valar raised several Mountain chains and with his fire, for what reason I don’t even want to speculate on. But some of them rose under ancient mountains like here, like in the Misty Mountains. But these Volcanoes he raised, these fire mountains, they were _different,_ they were _magical_ and _powerful._ Where they rose, the changes the old mountains underwent, the way the materials and the stone itself changed… it is unique, the materials found there were like none other in the world. They say Thangorodrim itself was such a Mountain and there was one under the three peaks of Moria, though Mahal’s power prevented the volcano from fully forming and… then there is Erebor.”

 

“Bofur, many have claimed Erebor might be a second Moria,” Fili tried to dampen the miner’s excitement a little. “But there never was proof.”

 

“Now, that’s where you are wrong.” Bofur said. “That black iron in the peak set me thinking. I know that story the people of the Reach tell, that it is the Black Lord’s blood that touched the stone and changed it, but that’s just a story. Then I noticed the range of materials we found here, precious stones, gold and so forth… and then… Fili… the reason I asked Thorin to join us, is because I found something, something I want to show you, once Thorin is back from the ruins and putting Lachanar on Black Squirrel duty.”

 

“Then assume yourself having two intrigued listeners,” Thorin’s deep voice rumbled from the doorway, he had just joined them. “what did you find Bofur?”

 

“I’d rather show you,” Bofur told him. “had I not seen it for myself I wouldn’t believe it to be true.”

 

They climbed into the deep on long ladders and sometimes ropes. Bofur had already drawn up a plan to repair the old lifts and shafts that had been used to enter the mines before the dragon came. All three dwarves felt more at home the deeper they came, surrounded by tons of solid rock a feeling of belonging settled into their bones. It was a legacy all of Mahal’s children shared.

 

Eventually Bofur led them towards a short mining shaft, winding down into an unexplored deep. “They must have begun this only weeks before the dragon came,” the miner explained. “good thinking, the way the stone is… there’s a good chance for another solid gold vein down here.” He guided them along the shaft to the mine, raising his torch. The light was caught by something golden, glistening like a huge vein in the stone, the color was paler than normal gold though, it shone paler and brighter under the light.

 

Thorin’s breath hitched, when he saw it. “It’s not possible,” he whispered, recognizing the shine of pure Mithrál. The material was a legend much like the famous Mithril of Moria. It was of course known that true Mithril was only found in Moria, and the dwarves new that the process that had caused Mithril to come into existence was a rare one. Whispers claimed that it could only happen under those mountains once raised by Melkor. Once it cooled, millennia later, the material would be rich and diverse and if there had been the right ingrediens, the right materials involved and pressure high enough; things like Mithrál or Mithril might be found. Mithrál was a rare and strange gold, it had been found in Moria only in the scarcest quantities, but Thrór had always said Erebor may be the right type of ancient fire mount to look for it.

 

Mithrál was the spellgold, the most enchanted gold… the gold that was no gold, the rare finds in Moria had been wrought into some of the greatest most famous pieces of jewelry, enchanted and beautiful, powerful and rare.

 

A cold hand touched Thorin’s heart, when he saw the massive vein in the stone, he could hear the stone sing to him, and he knew that this lode was not a small one. Had this been what had drawn the dragon here? Or had the curse already been so strongly in effect that it would have brought the dragon either way?

 

The dream… Thorin could not resist to gently touch the cold ore vein, remembering the dream he had when the treasure had called out for him. All that had been in the dream had been true in a way, the hoard being so much larger, Dwalin losing a brother and now… this. He averted his eyes, not looking at the bright glistening of the metal any more. “If… if we closed this shaft, do you think we could avoid finding it again, Bofur?” he asked, his voice rough.

 

Bofur looked at him shocked at first but then understanding dawned in the miner’s features. “No, Thorin,” he said. “this formation extends into most of the Northern ridge, if we want to expand into that direction we will come across it beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

 

Somehow he had known it, he had felt that he would not be able to bury this find and forget about it. Thorin bit his lip, how could he trust himself with such a treasure, after having proven so weak, so wretched when it came to gold? Suddenly he felt a hand touching his shoulder, Fili had stepped close, his eyes warm and concerned. “It will not get you again,” he said gently. “you broke free of the spell, it will not take hold again.”

 

The warm voice cut into Thorin’s heart, after all he had done, after nearly killing Fili, his son would still be there for him. “You must not let me fall to it again,” he said roughly. “I… I can feel it sing, echo in the stone, the load is huge and it extends north from here. I… I do not want to be ruled by it again.” He looked up, meeting Fili’s eyes. He had learned what his true treasures were, and they were not of gold or dead hoards. They were family and friends.

 

“Bofur,” Thorin turned to the miner. “I have a hard task for you, one that I can only ask you to accept… I do know none other who could do it.”

 

“What do you need, Thorin?” Bofur asked, he had looked away, seeing that this was a private moment of Thorin and Fili.

 

“I need you to take charge of this mining operation… to be the new Master of the Pit. I know you, Bofur, you may talk of treasure but at the end of the day you will prefer a good meal and some songs and laughter to any gold. I must know that mining this… is in hands I can trust to not fall to greed.”

 

TRB

 

Kili hated having to wake his comrades from the all too short rest they had had, he too was tired but they were needed. “Bilbo!” he gently shook the Halfling who sat up with a yawn.

 

“Let me guess, Goblins with no idea of proper visiting times,” Bilbo grumbled, getting to his feet, nudging Regin to wake up, when he saw Kili wake Ánar and Hlevár. “How bad it it?”

 

“I do not know, but Dwalin just reported that the second group from Thanghar’s crossing has not yet reached us, they are two hours overdue.”

 

“And they were the last up the pass,” Bilbo hid a yawn. “but they had a good escort troop. Bladvila was in charge of them.”

 

“I know…” Kili replied. “but… something is wrong, Bilbo. I can feel it.” He looked up to the skies, where a pale moon had risen, the stars were glittering above and a cold wind whispered in the night. A chill ran over him and raised the hairs on his arms. Something was not right, though he could not name what it was.

 

Seeing the others were ready Bilbo headed ahead of them soft footedly, he was often their scout, the first into the situation and the one to spot how big the trouble was this time. They headed down from the peak of the pass, following the sloping road, where the last group of carts should be heading towards them.

 

In the pale moonlight Bilbo could see the road was empty, with the many traces of the carts and wagons having made it up the steep slope during the last days. He ducked behind a rock barrier and sneaked around the next turn, when he heard a soft pained groan. Heading forward he came around the bend and saw the carts standing there, two were broken down, the horses dead, a few bodies lying strewn on the grounds around them. Bladvila’s defenders…. Bilbo’s heart clenched, seeing the corpses of those who had died defending the carts. But… where was everyone else? There should be dozens more dwarves with this group.

 

He turned his head, nearly smiling when he actually hooted; Kili had taught him that one, saying it was the call of the Dawn Owl, though Bilbo had to take his word for it. He moved on, knowing Kili and the others would be with him momentarily. The groan became audible again and he spotted one dwarf sitting against the wheel of a broken cart. Bilbo hurried to his side, recognizing Hilfrim, the old dwarf coughed painfully. “Bilbo... they came out of nowhere… many of them… they took the others.”

 

“Took them?” Bilbo asked, trying to calm Hilfrim. “Who took them.”

 

“Goblins… Orcs… too organized for common Goblins, the raid was swift, quick and quiet, we had no chance. They dragged all off that were alive, left me to die.”

 

Kili had reached them and knelt down beside Hilfrim. “Did you see where they dragged them?” he asked, checking the dwarf’s injuries and seeing all too clearly that there was little he could do.

 

“North… down that path…” Hilfrim’s eyes pointed the direction. “towards Greyfather’s peak or Eagle’s Hoard I’d say. I heard them struggle… but it ended soon enough, there must be a cave nearby, a door into the deeps.” Another fit of coughs shook the old dwarf and he sagged forward, his last breath leaving him.

 

Gently Kili eased the body onto the ground. The first group they had lost… no, not yet. “Regin, go back to Dwalin, tell him to send people to pick up the carts and loads best that we can and then lead on without wasting any more time.” He said. “Tell him I am going after our people.”

 

Bilbo was not surprised Kili said that, it was what Thorin would have done too. Neither Kili nor any of his family would see their people dragged away to fate-knew-where. He looked at their small troop, Falur and Thogrim were two good warriors, Ánar and Hlevár were so very young but held their own so far and there was Bilbo himself and Kili. Six people. “Do we need more fighters?” he asked, surprised that none of the others would take it upon themselves to ask.

 

“No, the trek can’t miss any more fighters, Bilbo.” Kili rose, seeing Regin already head off. “I have an idea where they are being brought… and we will get them back.” His eyes were already on the narrow winding gap leading North. “It seems there is no crossing these mountains without a rude visit with the Goblins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
> 
> Okay, I got one more chapter done! Guys, there will be posting slowdown around this weekend, because I won’t be there for a few days, please bear with me. 
> 
> I am not a geologist, and have to rely on my layman’s knowledge of geology and trying to make any sense of MiddleEarth’s mining is probably filled with my mistakes.


	7. Roads that never saw sun or sky

Bilbo saw Kili move up towards the smooth rock face, the ravine was a dead-end, or at least it seemed to be one. The Hobbit had learned that doors leading into the mountains had the rude tendency of being invisible. “Could this be a Goblin trap like the one in the cave?” he asked in a hush as he caught up with his friend.

 

Kili shook his head. “We are many leagues north of Goblin Town, Bilbo. No… this is older, much older and was not built by Orcs at all.”

 

The other four had caught up with them as well, covering their backs. “This must be one of the southern stretches of Greyfather’s Peak,” Falur said grimly. “if there is a door it is of dwarven make and an ancient one at that. I wish I knew how the Orcs got them to work.”

 

“Much like they did with the gates of Moria – they either have someone inside to open it for them or they are using different tunnels to reach the surface.” Kili’s hands traced over the dark stone, like he was searching for something. “It is my hope that they withdrew their guard now that the raiders are home.”

 

“A dwarven door?” Bilbo asked confused, his Dwarven history was checkered at best, mostly things he had picked up from the stories and songs he had heard on their journey. “But… but we must be leagues away from Moria…”

 

Ánar came to stand beside Bilbo, back to the rock. “Not Moria, Bilbo… a place even older. Greyfather’s Peak is the common tongue name of this Mountain… few people are aware that the well-known name of this mountain is actually a Khuzdul word, the word for ‘First Mine or First Tunnel’.”

 

“Mount Gundabad,” Kili added and now Bilbo noticed that the dwarf was not searching something, his hands were tracing an intricate pattern on the stone, when he was finished the stone began to glow blue and a doorway formed before their very eyes.

 

Bilbo drew his sword, unsurprised that it too was aglow with blue flame. He had heard the dwarves mention this mountain before, Azog had been a Gundabad Orc, and that this mountain was a veritable Orc stronghold. But what choice did they have? Ducking into the shadows Bilbo followed Kili into the glowing gateway.

 

The tunnels were different from anything Bilbo had seen in Goblin town, this was not a dank chasm with bridges and ropes, this was a stronghold of stone, stairs and tunnels leading in multiple directions. In a time not so long ago he would have called them simply dark tunnels, but now Bilbo saw the intricate stonework, the elaborate ceilings and sweeping stairwells, all these of dwarven make, no matter how much Orc grime had gathered on them.

 

Kili had moved ahead of them, squatting behind a broken pillar, he surveyed the area ahead before gesturing them to follow. Bilbo was the first to move, slipping past Kili and ahead in the direction he had indicated, finding cover behind a huge stone balustrade, only steps away from two Orc guards. He signaled back to Kili, who came moving in swiftly, to dispose of the two guards.

 

Ahead they came to a place where once a mighty stairwell would have descended into the deeps, but there was little left of it, except a few pillars and a landing here and there. Whatever had smashed these stairs, it had happened long ago and the pillars were crumbling. Bilbo made a face when he saw the torches instead illuminate a number of rusty iron cages hanging on revolting chains, obviously used to move up and down, controlled by ropes. “Do we have to take these down?” he asked in a whisper. “Are you sure, Kili?”

 

“Aye,” the dwarf confirmed. “they will bring the prisoners down there. I’ve been here before, Bilbo. We need to be swift, before they realize we are here.”

 

Ánar had taken one of the long steel hooks that lay on the ground and fished one of the cages with it, pulling it close. “Will we come up this way again?” he asked quietly.

 

Kili looked at the younger warrior, Ánar and his brother had held themselves well, but he could see a flicker of nerves in his comrade’s eyes. He knew all too well how it felt, being in over his head, no way out only the way forward and not wanting to disappoint someone. “No, Ánar, this way is barred to us.” He said. “If we get separated make for the old waterworks, you will see the old Khuzdul markers on the walls. The waterworks have a tunnel that serves to bring the water pumped from the mines out of here. It is a wild swim to say the least, but it leads back to the surface.”

 

They climbed into the steel cage, the contraption swung wildly as the hook was released, and Kili steadied himself with one hand against the dirty bars. “Whatever happens, avoid all tunnels marked with a black and red circle holding a single rune in the middle,” he said as Falur cut the ropes that held the cage in position and they began to descend into the deeps. “these tunnels are dangerous… only use them if it is the choice between certain capture or going that way.”

 

The cage came to halt in a huge grotto sparsely lit with torches. “What’s that?” An Orc voice drawled in the darkness. “More rats for the forge?”

 

Kili kicked the cage open and sank his blade into the Orc that had approached. Several more came rushing at them, but in their surprise they were uncoordinated and died quickly. Raising one of the Orc torches Kili looked around. “Too few guards,” he whispered. “they must have gone somewhere else.”

 

“Could the prisoners give them trouble?” Thogrim suggested.

 

“Maybe. They mentioned the forge, that’s through there.” Kili again pointed the direction towards a stone doorway that led them into a maze of smaller halls. An eerie silence lay over the place, no hammers were ringing out nor was there the hot hisses of fire and metal cooled in water. Kili frowned as he led the others deeper into the maze. “Strange, the forge is silent.”

 

They came into a larger hall, where the remains of a recently broken smelter were still strewn between shattered anvils and broken tools. The dwarves exchanged grim glances, they knew what an exploding forge meant, how much damage it could do, especially to those around the faulty smelting oven. They kept close to the wall, to avoid any of the maybe not fully cooled slag on the floor.

 

The tunnel they entered after leaving the hall stank, had the forge smelled of heated iron, of slag and stone, this place now reeked of sweat, dirt and latrine. The hallway opened to rectangular place, filled with cages. The bars of the cages were crude and rusty, the Orcs having made only minimal effort to construct the pens for their captives. In the bleak light of the torch Kili saw that many pens were full, much more than just with the people taken from their caravan. His heart sank, this had just gotten a lot harder.

 

“Kili!” A familiar voice called out to him. Leaning against the bars of the one of the cages sat Bladvila, the dwarven warrior was pale, blood smearing his tunic and his skin had an unhealthy greyish tinge.

 

Hurrying to the cage, Kili at once checked the lock, it was an orc lock, crude and easily picked if one knew how. “No worries, Bladvila,” he said. “we’ll have you out of here in no time.” He gestured the others to start with the rest of the cages.

 

“Kili,” Bladvila’s voice was strained. “you need to be careful… something, or someone… is haunting these halls. Heard the overseer say it… some captive that broke lose… probably crazy… they say it’s a crazy elf.”

 

“They always say it is a huge elven warrior with a sword like fire,” Kili grumbled. “one day they will do it when Thorin is after them… and him being called an elf, it will be a sight to behold.”

 

His words had the desired effect of making Bladvila grin, if only for a moment. Everyone in the Ered Luin knew that calling Thorin Oakenshield an elf was as good as a death sentence. But the warrior grew serious quickly, he actually grabbed the bars to pull himself up, the other captives in that cell keeping their distance, some were dwarves, some were men, but all were unknown to Kili. “Listen,” Bladvila managed to stand, if still holding onto the bars. “the guards went when the crazy one showed up again… they are afraid… it’s definitely something dangerous.”

 

The lock came open and Kili extended a hand towards their friend to allow Bladvila to lean on him. “What did you see?” he asked. “You saw something that has you worried.”

 

“When they dragged us down here I … I saw one man ripping through at least a dozen of them on another level, tossing their bodies down into the deeps. You know that’s the swiftest way to stir them up, he did not seem scared at all. Crazy red-head.”

 

Kili heard a loud crack and saw Hlevár having taken an Orc axe and simply smashing the locks of the cages, some of their freed people came hurrying to support Bladvila, who had a hard time standing on his own. Knowing he was with some of their own. Kili turned to the other captives, who stared at them with a mix of fear and anticipation. A haggard woman pushed her way forward, she was fairly tall and her blond hair was dirty, her clothes ragged and torn, she held two small, emaciated children close. “Please,” she said in a pleading, if hoarse voice. “I know you can’t take us all… but at least take the children…” her eyes went to several more children and youngsters amongst the captives. “I beg you… have mercy on them.”

 

It was always the same problem, freeing one person from an orc den would always bring others, Kili had seen it before and if Thorin had taught him a lesson it was to never leave anyone to the orcs. No matter who. Some of the worst scrapes he had fought through by Thorin’s side as a youth had been such stints, rescuing people they had never knew the names of. “We will get you all out of here,” Kili said firmly. “but you need to do exactly as we say to have a chance. Split up in groups, each group one of your strongest and two of your weakest, you need to help each other. It is five leagues underground to the waterworks and the way will not be easy.”

 

TRB

 

The blue flames engulfed the dragon’s body, their cold light shining brightly into the newly rising night. Bard had watched Thorin light the flames together with Prince Fili, the cold fire gave the human warrior shivers, it was something of legend, of stories. But much of his life of late had been walking between stories having become reality. There were not many people present as the corpse burned, Thorin, his son Fili, a few of Thorin’s companions and Bard himself had come to watch the final traces of Smaug burning away. “I couldn’t help but notice that fangs and claws of the beast were missing,” he said as the flames rose higher, eating away the corpse.

 

“Kili took them the day he slew the dragon,” Fili replied. “he is a spellsmith, to him they were the greatest treasure in the entire mountain.”

 

“After what I saw your brother do in that forge in Laketown, I have no doubt of it,” Bard replied, the now familiar weight of Wrathbringer on his back reminding him well of that night. “I hope he won’t miss any other pieces of the beast.”

 

Fili shook his head. “He will understand that we could not wait until he is back. As our mother would say: if the pressure in the smelter goes out of control, don’t waste time on bemoaning your forge but run to save your life, Kili would never expect us to put anyone at risk like that.”

 

Their people should be here come autumn, in four or five months, having to cross half the world to get home, Bard thought, but Fili’s words sparked another question in him. “So we’ll finally get the meet Thorin’s Queen then.” It would at least put a stop to some of the chatter amongst the girls from Dale.

 

“His sister, you mean.” Fili corrected him.

 

Bard stared at the blond dwarf standing beside him, confused. Thorin had introduced both Kili and Fili as his sons in Lake Town, he so well remembered that day, the day a story of Bard’s own childhood had suddenly walked into his life and proven to be worth of all the legends Bard had heard. “Pardon me?” Bard asked, trying to be polite. He had heard of close intermarriages within royal houses but… he could not mean that, could he? “Your mother… is Thorin’s sister and…”

 

He saw Fili’s face lighten up into a laugh. “I am sorry, Bard, I guess no one took the time to explain things to you.” The blue eyes sparkled with some humor. “And it is confusing, even for dwarves who have known it all for much longer…”

 

“I will freely admit that my knowledge of dwarven royal genealogy ends with what my grandfather could teach me,” Bard replied, not truly flustered. “and that is only names, dates and some details left and right, except for the stories about your father and great-grandfather.”

 

Fili’s eyes went to Thorin who stood closer to the pyre, the King seemed lost in thought at the moment, his eyes pensive, reminding Fili of the many times he had seen him sit by their campfire and stare into the flames, his mind far far away. “My mother is Dis, daughter of Thrain, sister of Thorin,” he began his explanation. “and my blood-father was Dari, her husband, a warrior from the Reach. Kili’s mother was Ida, daughter of Swanhilda and his father is Thorin, we were born cousins. Ida was killed the day Kili was born, a Dunlending arrow took her life, another would take my sister…” Fili had been strangely touched by the knowledge that he had had a sister that had been ripped away by a stray arrow that day. Sometimes he wondered if it explained the small empty spot he had felt inside him when he was younger, a spot he had filled with his little brother as the years progressed. “and Dis raised Kili as her child, we grew up as brothers and when Thorin declared Kili his heir, he adopted me as a second son. We swore to be brothers…”

 

Bard looked at the young dwarf beside him. How much had this family been through? Children murdered, mothers slaughtered in childbirth? How had they managed to not grow bitter, to not become hateful? “I would never have guessed,” he admitted. “you treat Thorin like a father, and he treats you like a son.”

 

“He was the only father we had,” Fili said. “Dari fell by the gates of Moria, with many others. Thorin raised us, he… he is the only father I could wish for and I loved him like father even when he still was my Uncle.”

 

“You do not miss your real father?” Bard asked, no judgment in his voice. Orphans often would strongly latch onto their caregivers, seeking something they had lost all the more fiercely.  How much more so for children losing so many of their family so cruelly?

 

“I cried for him when I was small and when we were told he had died,” Fili said. “and I will always mourn his passing, but more because of the pain his death gave Thorin than anything else. Dari… the name always links with Thorin in my memory. When he would be at camp and see us, Thorin usually was there too and… today I cannot think of Dari without seeing Thorin as well. And I know here,” he put his hand over is heart. “that he would not want it any different.” Fili looked up at the darkhaired human standing beside him. Bard had to be in his forties, as far as the ages of menfolk went. “I noticed there was no family coming with you either, except that little boy in Hulda’s care, whom you look after sometimes in the evenings.”

 

Startled Bard met the Prince’s eyes, he had not expected the dwarf to take so much notice of the goings on inside the community of men. “My parents died when I was young, my grandfather raised me,” he said. “I guess… I guess I can understand where you are coming from, Prince Fili. Only that I still miss my father at times. My wife was killed in a Wilderlander raid four winters ago and I asked Hulda to look after our only child, when I am out on duty and… I sometimes wonder if it would be better to leave him with Hulda entirely. He is just a small boy and a warrior’s life is a tough one, it easily breaks you.”

 

“Only if you have to bear it alone,” Fili said warmly. “don’t push your son away, Bard, the years he has with you may be short enough as it is. Yes, being a warrior is hard, and being trained to be one is even worse, but… if he has you and knows you will be there for him, no matter what, no matter how bad things get, he will have the home he needs.”

 

There was a strange wisdom in Fili, Bard often thought of the Prince as the younger man, and in terms of lifespan he was right, but Fili had seen a lot in his 82 years and it showed. “I can try,” he said.

 

Now Fili smiled at him. “You will try and you will do it,” he said with a slight wink. “and you could start by introducing the boy to me, once this horrid bonfire is over. It’s never too early to make some friends.”

 

TRB

 

It was morning when Thorin let the blue fire go out, he was exhausted, tired in mind and body, but it was done. Except a pile of pale ashes nothing was left of Smaug. Looking to the side, his gaze found Bofur, leaning on his heavy pick. “What did you call him? That day in Bag-End?” he asked, recalling Bofur’s words about a furnace on wings.

 

The miner titled his head. “Well that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meathooks, extremely fond of precious metals.” He repeated the phrase that had vexed Thorin a little back then.

 

The King smiled. “I think this is the last that we saw of him, Bofur. And our furnaces won’t have wings either.” Bofur smiled, quietly sharing the rare moment of humor with Thorin.

 

A noise startled them both and Thorin drew Orcrist when he saw the lid of one of the old water channels move. Bofur had already hurried over and pried the stone slab away, revealing a hand, grabbing the rim of the hole, as Lachanar pulled himself out of the deeps. The Elf was soaked and looked like he had been through a few fights. “Thank you, Bofur,” he said, his eyes going to Thorin. “I found it.”

 

Thorin sheathed Orcrist and joined them. “Somewhere under the city?” he asked, knowing what Lachanar was referring to.

 

“Deep under the city and… Thorin this is worse than we thought it was. At least… I think it is. You should see it for yourself.”

 

Thorin did not waste time on questions that could only be half answered. “Bofur, come with me, Lachanar lead the way.”

 

They descended down into the old water systems, the traces where Lachanar had fought his way past the black rats and other denizens of the sewers were unmistakably visible everywhere they came. The elf led them from the sewers into cellars and then even deeper, into older structures and tunnels, until the last halls build by men fell behind them and they walked through stone tunnels that looked much different. Eventually they came down another flight of stairs and stood before a black stone door, inscribed with red runes and inlaid with white jewels. The door stood ajar about a hand’s breath and a cold echo seemed to seep from the gap.

 

Bofur stopped, his eyes wide with shock. “It can’t be… the deep ways… the legends are true.” He whispered.

 

Thorin turned to the miner, his face stern. “The legends are true Bofur, along with what they tell of the Fall of the Silver Throne, and it has been a secret for a good reason. No one must ever know about them, my house has guarded this knowledge since…”

 

He did not need to go on the miner understood and bowed his head. “I will take the secret to my grave, my King, I swear it.”

 

Thorin accepted Bofur’s vow, he knew the miner was a man of his word. “Lachanar…” his eyes went to the elven warrior.

 

“I have seen this before, Thorin, you know where, for you were with me that day, up in the Ered Mithrin. Back then you told me not to ask you what that doorway was or whence it led.”

 

“And I ask you again,” Thorin said. “Do not ask, to not inquire and forget what you saw. No one must know it is even here.” The dwarven King held the elf’s gaze calmly and firmly and Lachanar bowed. “It shall be as you wish, my Lord. I swear silence on all I have seen here.”

 

Thorin breathed a sigh of relief; the secret was safe, which was important. “Go back to the upper end of the stairs, the both of you, guard it and let no one pass. I need to seal this door again. Do not come down here, no matter what you hear, until I am finished and call for you.”

 

TRB

 

Kili remembered the way to the waterworks well, the last time he had taken this route he had been guiding Elladan and Elrohir towards where the other elves were held and he had ended up with a claw in his belly. He hoped that no new deep watcher had taken to nest in the waterworks’ main channel. It was a tough way getting there, with only so few fighters they had to try and clean the tunnels before the fleeing captives entered them, and still they had to move quickly. It was only possible at all because the Orc numbers were low. Had the mountain been manned to their full strength the venture would have been doomed to fail.

 

When they entered the main waterworks – a huge hall where several waterchannels converged and were pressed into one rushing tunnel that brought the water out of the deeps, Kili saw several Orcs awaiting them. They were not guards, nor just a patrol, they stood on the bridge spanning the channels, waiting. In their midst stood one huge Orc, greyskinned and towering all of his kind, a huge blade in his hands.

 

Raising his fist Kili signaled the rest of the group to take cover inside the tunnel they were in and lowered his bow off his shoulder. _They will rush us once I begin shooting,_ he signaled Falur and Ánar with his other hand. _I will weed out what I can, then we let them storm the tunnel entrance._ The three of them could block the tunnel entrance and force the Orcs to come at them in smaller numbers. It was a desperate tactic but their best option. The other three fighters – Thogrim, Hlevár and Bilbo were at the back of the group making sure they were not getting picked off from behind.

 

Kili bent the bow, firing the arrows in rapid succession, each shot killing one of the Orcs on the bridge. With a roar they charged at them, all too swiftly reaching the tunnel. He switched from the bow back to his dwarven sword, as the fighting began in the tunnel mouth. On the narrow grounds the Orcs could not bring their numbers to bear, but the fight was brutal nevertheless, for every Orc they killed was replaced by the next rushing in. Falur was killed by an Orc blade, and suddenly it was only two fighters to hold the tunnel against the rushing Orcs. Kili saw Ánar stumble and fall, he moved swiftly between his comrade and the attacker, catching the deathly blade with his arm. The crude Orc sabre did not get through the steel vambrace but still send a fiery pain up Kili’s arm. The warrior did not waste time but used the moment to ram his sword into the Orc’s belly.

 

Ánar had gotten back onto his feet and switched places with Kili, tying up his erstwhile opponent. The young dwarf fought with a wild desperation, what he lacked in experience he made up with stubborn will and strength. Still his last opponent nearly overpowered him but Kili having some room to breathe killed that Orc in time, his blade breaking with a loud crack, half remaining inside the dying creature.

 

A scratchy laugh resounded from the water hall. “You will have to come out rats,” the big Orc stood still on the bridge, having not moved one step. Only now he stood alone and sniffed into the humid air, that smelled of algae and weeds. “Come out, Kili unda Thorin… I smell you… weak like your father.”

 

Kili inhaled slowly, forcing his breathing into a steady rhythm again. They needed that Orc gone to get their people to the main channel. “Get the others ready to move,” he whispered to Ánar. “Have Bilbo move up here, he has the best ideas in a pinch.”

 

Seeing the young dwarf nod, Kili reached to his back to draw the elven sword he had been carrying with him so far. He still found it too much of a two-handed blade, and a heavy one at that, but with his usual sword broken, he needed it now. Head held high he stepped out of the tunnel to approach the enemy. “I can’t quote your lineage, but you look much like a very dead Orc I used to know,” he replied to the Orc leader, playing it much colder than he truly was. This one, he was too reminiscent of Azog, and Kili’s stomach clenched when he remembered the battle against the Pale Orc.

 

“I am Bolg unda Azog,” the Orc replied, raising his huge saber, “and I will send your smashed remains to your father to weep over, Goblin-slave.”

 

“Really? I thought you Orcs were bred in pits where your seed is mixed with your droppings,” Kili shot back, hoping to enrage his enemy, he was nearly at the bridge and fell into a sprint, launching himself into attack. Their blades clashed, metal shrieking under the force of the first assault, Kili broke his sword free and landed a hit in Bolg’s side, but the next hit of the saber swept him off his feet and send him flying to the ground beside the bridge. Pain shot through his back as he forced himself to his feet just in time to block the next attack, he moved faster, forcing the Orc to match his speed but unfortunately Bolg was able to keep up, his brutal hits hacked through Kili’s armor whenever he failed to block an attack. He managed to land another hit, his sword eating deeply into Bolg’s leg, but the Orc hardly reacted to the pain, he brought down his saber and with one brutal hit ripped the sword from Kili’s hands, it flew through the air and landed on a stone catwalk above the waterworks, cluttering down on the old stone bridge.

 

Bolg grinned anticipatory when he saw his foe disarmed. He would get some sport out of this dwarf before it was all   over. Neither of them saw the figure on the catwalk picking up the fallen blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
> 
> Okay, I got one more chapter done! Guys, there will be posting slowdown around this weekend, because I won’t be there for a few days, please bear with me.


	8. To come out of shadow

Kili saw Bolg’s anticipatory grin and knew he was facing death, the huge Orc had as good as bested him and he understood what Thorin must have felt about Azog. With a growl he drew his dagger, the only weapon left to him, he would fight as long as he drew breath. The Orc advanced and Kili ducked under the heavy blade, rolling over the hard floor of the waterworks to evade another attack. 

A blinding light from above them left him blinking and with colourful specks obscuring his vision while Bolg stumbled backwards, his arms raised to shield himself from the radiance. In the sudden brightness Kili only saw a shadowy figure jumping with an unnatural ease off the catwalk, the sword he had lost only moments before in hand, the hilt of the sword shone blindingly bright. The fighter advanced on Bolg. The Orc reacted, in spite of his fear of the light and raised his saber with a howl, charging his new opponent. His attack was blocked with a casual ease that seemed impossible. Kili’s face fell, he had never seen someone fight like this, this fighter was faster than the Orc, always one step ahead of any possible attack and a swordsman beyond compare. He had disarmed Bolg in the third attack and pushed him backwards, until the Orc stumbled into one of the waterchannels, roaring with anger. Two more attacks sliced Bolg’s chest, and a last would have beheaded him, if the huge Orc had not taken his last wits together and dived into the waters, letting the rushing channels carry him out of the reach of his attacker.

Still staring wide-eyed at the fighter that had just saved his life, Kili scrambled back to his feet. His sight was slowly evening out and he could actually see more than shapes and shadows in the light of the sword. Not five paces away, bedside the rushing channels stood an elven warrior, his long red hair like a flame in the light the sword cast. The last time Kili had seen this warrior had been after the battle the previous autumn. “You have my thanks… had you not intervened, I’d be dead,” he managed to find his voice again.

“Are you injured?” The elf asked, ignoring the thanks entirely, Kili was not sure if it was simply because he felt that they had pressing matters at hand or because he felt it beneath his honor to accept thanks for chasing off a single Orc.

“None that I can’t deal with,” he replied, looking to the tunnel, where his people were hiding. “I need to get my people out of here before more orcs come.”

“Fion should be with your people, I doubt that many more of these creatures will come here soon,” The elf’s keen eyes went to the tunnel, as if to confirm what he had said. 

He had been right, with Ánar and Bilbo, Fion was among the first to come out and led the exhausted captives into the water halls. “Kili, what in the world brought you down into this orc hole?” Fion asked, the blond warrior sported some fresh scars and scratches that bespoke his adventures in the last weeks, but he greeted Kili with a happy grin. 

“I could ask you the same, Fion,” Kili replied, glad to see his cousin was still alive and obviously still happy to wander the world with a strange ancient elf. “we came down here to free our people from the Orc dens. You know how they are – they will always drag captives down into their caves and have them work in the deeps until they die from exhaustion and lack of sunlight.” 

Fion raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I got captured much the same way, when I was scouting a cave in the mountains. If Rú had not come for me…”

“I do not leave a friend in the hands of these things,” Rú cut off the praise. “Orcs will be Orcs no matter how many ages they live. Kili, you hopefully do not intend of having these people use the watertunnels to get out of the this mountain?” The Elf’s eyes surveyed the group of captives, standing close together, fearfully gazing at the warriors. 

“It is the only way… Russandol,” Kili hoped that what he knew of the legendary elf had been correct enough and that using this name would not cause offence. “The tunnels will carry us far enough east to safely lead these people down to Anduin valley.” 

“Surprising as I find it that you assume all of your people can swim,” an arched eyebrow underlined these words, “many of these people are exhausted and some of these children will drown.”

Kili had to crane his neck to look up to the elf, he was one of the tallest of his kind he had ever met. He pushed aside the awe he still felt towards the legend. “It is the only viable way out of this mountain I know of and that we can reach,” he explained. “and the waterlevel in the tunnels can be slightly lowered, by making use of the old water locks here. It will not be much, but if the strongest of us, help the weakest, it can work. Your aid would be much appreciated and I humbly request your assistance in saving these people.” Thorin may skin him for this, but sometimes a well worded plea got further than a rude demand. 

There was something akin to wry amusement in Russandrol’s expression. “A courteous dwarf… the world truly has changed.” He turned his gaze to his companion. “Fion, the support beams you hacked away up there, take some of the strongest people and bring them here.” He pointed at Ánar. “Take some others still able to defend themselves and go back to the tunnel at the utter left, you will find more broken wood and… a number of old bones there. Bring it all here as well. The rest of you gather up the bones of the deep watchers still lying between the channels.”

Ánar cast a questioning glance at Kili, the young dwarf’s brows furrowed and his shoulder’s squared, ready to question the elf’s authority but Kili raised his hand. Do as he says his fingers told Ánar. This is not a time for pride or indignation.

“What are you planning on doing with the wood and bones?” he asked when the others spread out, it was annoying to having to look up to the towering elf like this, but Kili wanted answers. 

“Making rafts for those who cannot swim the entire length of the distance,” Russandol replied. “the tunnels are broad and the waters deep, but that way those too weak to swim will have a chance.”

“But bones?” Kili asked. “I…”

“It is grisly I know. Giant bones and the bones of the deep watchers swim like wood, it will safe some of your people’s lives.”

Soon enough the material was brought back to them, broken support beams, other wood and large pale bones. Kili and Russandol were the ones to do the main work on them, always using some of the stronger beams for the frame of the float and then using the lighter wood and the bones for the flat surface. 

Kili forced himself not to think of the material they were using, but focused entirely on the work like he would in the forge, and he was surprised that he and the elf worked well together. He had never imagined that an elf would be able to perform such a ghastly task, like combining several giant bones to a raft by carving a smaller bone into splinters serving as nails. But Russandol did it with a coldness and skill that left the young dwarf baffled. They worked undisrupted for hours, no Orcs came for them, nor did anything else move inside this mountain.

“Why did you not lead them through the ancient sanctum?” Russandol asked, as they began the last of the makeshift vessels. “I doubt the Orcs would have dared to follow you into those chambers, let alone through them.”

“If I still knew how to open the doors, or where they are, I might have.” Kili replied. “Knowledge of these gates and their secrets was lost when Durin IV was slain in the Battle of the Burning Deeps.” He saw the eyebrows of the elf rise slightly, the question evident on the proud face. “Mount Gundabad fell to the Orcs during the first half of the second age, when more and more of the surviving orcs from Angband flooded from the north into the Misty Mountains. After one attempt of retaking the sanctum killed Durin III’s eldest son Frévan and many of his armies, Durin III decided to abandon any attempts of retaking this mountain and consolidate the defenses of Moria instead. A wise decision, given what happened in Eregion later.” 

“You had no allies to support your war?” Russandol’s voice had taken a slight edge, as he used the hilt of his dagger to hammer several splinters into their construction like nails. “I was told the Elves were still strong in that time.”

Kili bit his lip to not give an answer like Thorin would have. The dwarves had rarely seen aid from the elves when things got dire. And if they had it had usually been brave individuals, who had gone out of their way to aid them. But this elf did not deserve that ire. “The only alliance of your people and mine that truly worked was… long ago.” He said, knowing the elf would know what he was referring to. “And I am surprised you know of this place, or the inner workings of Mount Gundabad.” He added, to change the topic.

“I came here three times,” Russandol replied. “the first time by invitation of Prince Azaghâl, the second time to seal the alliance with him and the third… to bring his body home to rest beside his ancestors.” 

“I… I forgot you were the one who recovered his body from that battlefield,” Kili whispered, recalling one of the many stories he had been taught, things the House of Durin had sworn to never forgot. And the story of the brave Noldor King who had risked so much to prevent the Orcs from getting and robbing the body of his fallen ally, a Dwarven King, was one he had always liked. 

The last raft was done, they were not enough for all of them to use, but for the children and the most exhausted of the captives, along with the wounded. All the others would swim, the warriors who would have to swim as well discarded their armor, bundling it up and tying the bundles into the huge skull of a deep watcher. There was no guarantee the strange vessel would make it out with them, but it was the best chance for them to get their armor out at all. Pushing the rafts into the main channel the swimmers followed, the waters sucking them quickly into the darkness of the long drain tunnel.

TRB

Lachanar had never liked guard duty, at least not when he was forbidden to tackle the dangers he spotted and he truly had never envied the Royal Guard their task. A palace guard must be able to ignore all that was happening around him, ignore what he saw and heard, pretend to never having been witness to Royal troubles, clashes or private moments. Lachanar knew he could have never done that, he was a warrior, and when he stood guard somewhere he would go for whatever trouble presented itself. Unfortunately this time he was damned to stand atop a flight of stairs and to ignore the noises ringing up to them.

The low chanting in a language he did not understand, he could ignore, knowing Thorin was working some kind of ancient seal on the door. But Thorin’s voice grew strained with time and sounds like claws scratching the floor and swishing sounds in the air filled the silence eerily. He focused his gaze on the tunnel leading out of here, trying to distract himself, from Thorin’s voice that was echoing pain by now. 

The tunnel was built on a quadratic shaft and fully stone, even walls and floor, simple dwarven make if he had ever seen any. So this place had been built by dwarves and sealed on the order of Durin’s House, which would make sense. The other door he had seen, high up in the Ered Mithrin had also been in an ancient Dwarven complex. He well recalled his own journey up North. It all had begun with the envoy from Lothlorien who had come to King Thranduil’s court shortly past the spring festival. 

Lachanar had expected trouble at once. If Lord Celeborn went to the level of rudeness of sending a Noldor with his missive, it meant he was highly displeased about something. Displeased had been an understatement, to say the least. Lothlorien had suffered three different attacks by a winged wyrm coming from the Ered Mithrin and Celeborn reminded the King of Mirkwood quite sharply of his duties regarding the Northern borders. 

Not that his anger had truly reached the King. “Lachanar, I entrust this task to you,” the Woodland King had said with a laugh. “Your watchful presence really begins to get to my poor courtiers and I can see you long for a greater problem than just the southern borders to challenge you.”

He too had laughed, back then it had been a standing joke between the King and himself, that Lachanar was not an elf of peace, that he got restless when forced to attend the court too often and that he detested the constant celebratory mood of many woodelves. The very same day he had saddled his horse and ridden North to assess what they were dealing with and whence it came. He had not expected to see a young dwarf Prince tackle a small drake on the heather, nor that they would descend into one of the old dragon burial grounds… or that their wild adventure would stretch for two years and they’d become fast friends. 

Thorin’s voice grew silent and a slow deep cracking rang out from the deep, along with a low hiss that made Lachanar’s skin crawl. All in him screamed to leave this useless watch post and race to Thorin’s side to aid him… and that was exactly what Thorin had forbidden him to do. 

Lachanar had never felt more helpless since the day the dragon had come. Being forced to withdraw the troops had felt just as bad, because then like now he knew he could do something, and was forbidden from acting on it. 

“Steady,” Bofur said softly. “Thorin knows what he is doing, you have to trust him to do this and to call for us when he needs us.” There was an unshakeable trust in the dwarf’s voice. 

A loud crack echoed through the dark, followed by a sound like stone slowly clattering on stone. Lachanar frowned, he had heard this before… in a cave in the north, where had it been? His memory of it was hazy, only vaguely could he recall the cave, there had been bones… and something else… a deep voice whispering, speaking… His hands shot up to his temples, trying to fight off the pain shooting through his head. 

“Lachanar, what is it? Is something here?” Bofur reached for his arm, steadying him. 

The elf inhaled slowly, struggling against the pain. … a large hall, walls glistening silvery in the light of pale lamps, a voice speaking… echoes carrying through the hall… ‘He must forget, Thorin, forget that he was in danger, forget that he was saved, and forget that he even knows this danger exists.’ 

“Lachanar!” The call echoed into the dark hall, it was all the elven warrior needed to push past the pain in his head and race down the stairs. Down at the foot of the stairwell he saw the door had closed and Thorin was embroiled into fighting snakelike creature, with a double head and a spiked tail, a dancing snake. 

Stopping on the middle of the stairs, Lachanar bent his bow and nailed the spiked tail with two arrows to the ground, before launching into attack, Bofur had taken the cue as well, his mining pick a formidable weapon. Thorin’s sword had cost the snake the lethal fangs but each time the heads thrust at him, Thorin was in danger of being pushed off the platform. 

Using the moment the snake thrust forward to race up the creature’s slim back Lachanar reached the heads moments before they could rise and rammed his blade into the snake’s neck. The creature hissed and twisted, forcing the elf to jump off, while Thorin buried Orcrist in its mouth.

“Thorin, are you injured?” Lachanar sheathed his sword his keen ears telling him that there were no more enemies close by.

“Only bruises.” Thorin replied curtly. “let us leave this place.” Their eyes met, and for one moment Lachanar was tempted to speak, to ask about the memory that had invaded his mind, the bits and pieces that seemed missing in his head. But he did not. Thorin was his friend, and he would have to trust him on that. 

TRB

The dark waters swirled faster as they pressed forward towards the tunnel’s mouth. Kili did not know how many hours they had been swimming, it had been miles and miles underground until the tunnel finally reached the surface where it could spill into Langwell River. His arms were leaden and Kili had a hard time to keep going, it was like the waters were trying to pull him under and drown him, a cold seeping from the black flood, penetrating his skin and eating into his bones. 

He was by now fairly far behind the rafts, one of the last swimmers, his lungs ached and burned as the rushing waters spat him out of the tunnel’s mouth and into the icy river, ahead he could see where the rafts were landing on the sandy shore of Langwell River. He pushed forward, his last strength getting him to the shore. He just wanted to collapse, to drop and not move, but he could not, others were worse off and he had to see they were taken care off. When he pushed himself to his feet, a dizzy feeling began to manifest in his bones, the world blurred and only a moment later all became black around him.

TRB

When he awoke again, he lay by the side of a fire, feeling the warmth of flames tickle on his skin. The echoes of steps were around him, of voices and shadows of other people huddled by the fire… or was it other fires? He blinked slowly, forcing his eyes fully open. He could see several fires, burning along the shoreline, and the spring sun warmed them from above. “Kili… no, do not try to move.” He heard Fion’s voice. 

“The others?” Kili forced himself to ask.

“They are fine and taken care off. Getting warm by the fires, others are searching for food…” Fion told him, the blond dwarf had sat a bit away and was now beside him. “Rú, he’s coming around.” He informed the elven warrior.

“Good,” Russandol quickly checked on Kili, preventing him from fully sitting up. “Careful, Kili, the waters came close to killing you.”

Kili made a face and sat up, using his arms to support himself. “Nonsense. I can swim, better than most dwarves actually. I got a bit tired, that’s all.”

Russandol’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know…” he said, surprise echoing in his voice. “Tell me, Kili, son of Thorin, when did you manifest the flame? Even for your house you are very young to already have it so pronouncedly.”

Kili raised his hand, pushing some wet locks out of his face. “A year ago… last spring,” he said. “it felt natural… even though I was upset at the time. Why? I have not been working in a forge since last autumn.”

“With a dragon and a battle no one will have had the time to warn you,” Russandol observed. “but you are new to the flame, the fire has just found you and young as you are, it has manifested inside you. Until you reach your balance and your full control over your talent, you have to be careful where it comes to the warring elements – water and even more so the great sea, will sap your strength much more quickly and you will find that danger of drowning is lesser than the danger of dying from sheer exhaustion when submerged.” 

Digesting this information Kili managed to sit up properly, ignoring the tired feeling in his bones. “How do you even know I have the flame?” he asked.

“Do you think another spellsmith cannot sense the echo in you?” Russandol asked back directly. “With your bloodline I would call it unsurprising, but that would be disrespecting the gift in itself.”

Again Kili was reminded that this elf had probably known more of his ancestors than he had even heard of, and that he was a legend of all the arcane smiths, the legend of their craft, only overshadowed by his noble father. 

The elf must have sensed that the topic was one that had Kili uncomfortable. “Your sword – how did it come to you? It cannot have been in Smaug’s hoard.” He said, pointing to the sheathed blade lying beside the fire.

“Found it in a troll hoard, the very same that held Orcrist and Glamdring.” Kili told him, glad to be getting into another topic. “I cannot even begin to guess how they ended up there and I had hoped to ask the elves in Rivendell to identify the blade…” 

He stopped, his mind racing back to the cave, the blade shining in Russandol’s hand, the ease with which he had wielded it, the familiarity. And suddenly Kili laughed. “Send me back to the forge and call me an apprentice,” his sides shook with mirth. “What an arcane smith am I am aspiring to be, if I do not see the most obvious of signs?” 

He took the sword, his eyes finding the star engraved on the guard, shimmering softly in the darkness. He looked at Russandol. “I should have guessed it was from your House, but now I know it must be yours.” He handed it to the Elf, returning it to Russandol. “For the very life of me I would never have guessed that I was holding Elenlanta, the fallen star.” 

The elf took it, the hilt shining the moment his fingers touched it. “You could have kept it; I forfeited my right to wield it long ago.” 

“No,” Kili said firmly. “it belongs to you, and to none other.” He knew the elf would not accept his words; his judgment of his situation, Kili was too young, too far removed from the conflicts of this warrior to be able to voice a meaningful judgment on his path, so he decided to break the tension with humor. “And… you do not think that a blade made for an Elf of your stature would fit any dwarf? I will make my own sword when the time comes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	9. Under the weeping willow tree

The high hill overlooked the dwarven camps winding along the valley of the Great River, the colours of tents and wagons, the noises of horses and voices and the smell of campfires easily discernible at a distance. If Dis closed her eyes and just let the sounds and smells reach her, it was easy to imagine that this was King Thrór’s camp by the river, that it was a few scant years after the dragon had come and she was still that young dwarven girl she had once been, head over heels in love with a certain blond warrior… Dis smiled, opening her eyes again, the memories were fond ones. In those days after the initial shock had worn off and she had adjusted to the travelling life, she had still felt so confident, surrounded by her brothers, and friends like Dwalin, she had felt that there was nothing they could not face, together they could conquer any adversity, when she had not known of Orc raids and Dunlander’s hunting dwarves, before they had crossed the mountains for the first time and before the word Azanulbizar became the synonym for the loss of an entire generation, before she searched the blood fields for her grandfather, her father, her brothers… her husband.

 

Seeing this place again made Dis feel old, old wounds and fresh worries weighing on her. She led her pony towards the hilltop, she could see a small fire up there, someone else had preferred to camp with a little distance to the others, too. When she came closer Dis recognized Brea, sitting by the fire, Bladvila’s pony grazing beside her own. How must she be feeling, with her chosen brother vanished, captured by the Orcs? Dis wondered.

 

“My lady, you look ready for some good rest,” Brea had risen from where she had sat by the fire. “the stew will be finished soon enough, and Aife will bring some _cram_ back from the camp.”

 

“Thank you, Brea,” Dis was grateful to sit down and rest a bit, and the company of the other dwarf woman was welcome, it would stave off the memories. “I am surprised you camp so far off the main wagon train, usually you and Aife are in the thick of it, talking sense to a lot of stubborn people.”

 

“I handed that duty to Skadi and Wilda tonight,” Brea replied with a smile. “they are better than I in enforcing baths on our male population. And… I guess I wanted a moment away from the others after a thorough wash.”

 

Now Dis noticed that Brea’s beard was undone, and she was combing it dry, probably after having a bath down in the river. Brea took care as she combed the black tresses, so they would shine glossily.

 

“I know, it is silly,” Brea went on. “but being away from the others makes me feel less bad, less vain.”

 

The Princess arched an eyebrow. “Why should you not be a little vain, my friend? But I can understand not wanting to be stared at by all the warriors down in the camp, not talking of all the other males…”

 

Brea chuckled softly. “That too… but… I never was as courageous as Bladvila or Alric, Egil or Lini…” she ducked her head, blushing a bit. “they had no fears to cut off their beards, like your brother does, my Lady, showing that they are survivors, that they are his people…”

 

Dis who had begun to unpack some of her own supplies to contribute to the meal, stopped. “Wait… are you saying that all those warriors with their short beards wear them like that because Thorin was stubborn enough to keep his beard like that?” She asked perplexed. Until now she had assumed that most of them, who were orphans of the battle of Moria, showed their loss of clan, family and parents that way.

 

“Of course,” Brea explained, looking up meeting her eyes. “your brother… King Thorin… he showed us to be the people we had to be, to not wait for tradition, or any old dwarfs with laws even longer than their beards to tell us what to do, but to be all we could be and to be… his people, his survivors.” She sighed. “Bladvila always says your brother proved that it does not need a lousy long beard to be the best dwarves that roam this good earth, but…” her voice trailed off. “I guess I was too vain to do the same.”

 

Dis busied herself by quickly stirring the cauldron, just to gain a moment on her own shock. What had these children read into Thorin’s actions? What had he said to them that had been perceived in such a way? Had he any idea how much his example had shaped these youngsters? “You shouldn’t worry, Brea,” Dis said with a smile, finding her words again. “Thorin always found a good beard the best ornament of a Dwarf Lady, he would never expect you to cut it off.”

 

Their conversation was interrupted by Grís approaching them, the red-headed dwarf woman looked about for a moment, before turning to Dis. “Skadi said she saw you head up here, Princess,” she said. “and I thought you might want to rest with our camp down in the vale. You must be exhausted and sleeping on a wagon would certainly be more restful.”

 

“Thank you, Grís but I will be fine where I am,” Dis replied. “but I appreciate your offer.”

 

“Of… of course, as you wish, Princess,” Grís’ voice echoed some puzzlement at the response she had gotten. “there seems to be some confusion on when we will resume travel…”

 

“The wagons and carts need to be checked over after the mountain passage,” Brea spoke up, “many need small repairs and Mahal alone knows how many ponies lost their shoes on the pass road. It takes a few days to get a caravan into marching form again after crossing the Misty Mountains.”

 

Grís acknowledge the younger woman with a side-glance. “I was inquiring with the _Princess_ , Brea, had I wished information from you, I would certainly have asked.”

 

“Grís!” Dis was at her feet, tossing the ladle back into the cauldron with some force. “Brea has been my right hand on this entire trek, and you could at least have the common courtesy to treat her like that.” She could see that Brea was about to say something, maybe even to contradict her, and she raised her hand to forestall any words on Brea’s part. “I know that this kind of venture is foreign to you, Grís, but this is not a court, nor the halls of your father.”

 

Grís took a step backwards, sometimes it was too easy to forget what fiery temper Durin’s House possessed. “I will admit that I should have realized that she was assisting you, Princess,” she admitted, it was always wise to give a little ground to an enraged Royal, her mother had taught her as much. “but… the Exile is ending, we are headed back to Erebor and it is time to return to being a civilization, obeying the forms…”

 

Dis crossed her arms in front of her chest. “The forms will be obeyed, when _my House_ decides that they are needed,” she said firmly, it was time for the Princess to put her foot down and remind the noble Lady standing before her of rank. “And I was not aware you cared so much about hierarchy… given your decisions regarding your son.”

 

“My son, my Princess?” Grís asked, confused. “What does Gimli have to do with anything?”

 

“Are you really that much of a fool, Grís?” Dis asked. “Your boy and Kili were childhood friends, he was maybe the closest childhood friend my boys had.” She stepped forward to look at Grís directly, she was shorter than the red-head, but that did not faze her in the least. “ _Childhood friends,_ Grís but Childhood is at an end.”

 

“I know, Prince Kili had to grow up before his time…”

 

“He became a warrior in his own right,” Dis interrupted the lecture, not allowing Grís to dictate the pace of this conversation. “he is a grown fighter now, and his friends are among his comrades-at-arms, among those who fight beside him. He offered your son one chance to grow into such a comrade – maybe the last chance there ever would have been – and you squandered it. For someone so anxious about hierarchy and her houses’ position that was a truly odd move.”

 

Grís shook her head. “It would not have been proper, Dis, Gimli is only a lad and he will certainly make his own way when the time comes. I know you had little choice where it came to your boys…”

 

“Is it that again?” Dis asked dangerously low. “That you disagree that Thorin raised them as his heirs and as warriors?”

 

“Your brother did not want sons, or nephews… he wanted brothers,” Grís said with sudden anger. “he wanted comrades, fighters to stand beside him, and he shaped those two youngsters into exactly that, Dis! He wished and they became what he needed, two comrades, their youth the price of that transformation! You can put it in noble words all you want, but your brother did what a bladesmith does – he tossed them into the fire and either they came out tried and true or they would break. Or did they break to pass through the flame? Who knows? But whatever they became, they lost something all the same, and they never will be…”

 

“If you say they never will be proper dwarves, Grís, daughter of Gimrís, I will have you know I prefer them and other dwarves like them to your proper dwarves.” Dis said sharply. “You may think you can judge here, but you have no right whatsoever. You only married Glóin when things were stable again, until then you lived nicely in the Iron Hills. So either you become one of us, or you better ask your husband if he finds trade and money-lending in Dáin’s kingdom to his taste.”

 

Grís stiffened, she had never heard any dwarf so directly tell her that she had come from the Iron Hills, or that she had married Glóin after he had re-established his house in the Ered Luin. Her own temper flared. “Be warned, Dis, daughter of Thrain, I may not be much in your eyes,” she spat. “but let me tell you – Kili is not destined to succeed his father, whatever heights Thorin may climb to, Kili will not be the one to inherit his crown. Think long and hard about that!”

 

The red-headed dwarf turned around and strode downhill. Dis let go of the breath she had long held. “And there goes a problem we will hear from again.” She said, her hands curled up in firsts.

 

“She cannot really think that Kili is not Thorin’s heir?” Brea asked, the tradeswoman had gone pale at the suggestion. “She can’t say that… he is Thorin’s _son._ ”

 

“She plays at the so-called sight for portents her family is supposed to have,” Dis said grimly. “and I say her house has troubles to see the bottom of their own empty tankard.” Thoughtfully she looked at the younger dwarf woman. “Is that the attitude you deal with daily? Dwarves like her thinking you not proper?”

 

Brea shrugged. “Some, but most got used to us being around. Most of us do not care anymore. If your brother could take the scorn of Men, we can take a few upturned noses now and then. And… I wouldn’t want to be like them anyway.”

 

Her brave words made Dis laugh, maybe Grís was right about one thing, they had shaped a generation to be the people they needed them to be, and it had turned out just fine. These were their people, and to the Gate of Night with the Iron Hills and their propriety.

 

“Brea!” Aife came hastening up the hill, stopping when she saw Dis. “My Lady, it is good I found you, the lookout on the other side of the river reports having spotted a large group of people coming down Langwell valley. Could be our people, could be strangers. The Warmaster asked me to find you.”

 

Dis already went to her pony, Brea following her, to ride down to the camp and find Dwalin.

 

The long trek of people coming down the valley was entirely on foot and they were not solely dwarves either, even at a distance the difference was  easily visible, they were Men and Dwarves marching along the riverside. Dis’ hands closed more firmly around the reins of her pony. “Why do I have the feeling that I will find my son right amongst them, Dwalin?” she asked softly.

 

The bald warrior grinned at her. “Because Kili is his father’s son and if he goes to empty an Orc den, he will do it all the way.” He replied.

 

They had ridden towards the only ford the strangers could use to cross the Anduin. When the long column stopped at the other side, Dis spotted a familiar figure with a bow strapped to his back at the front of the marching group, right beside a taller figure. She clapped her hand over her mouth, feeling a load slip off her shoulders. Kili was there, alive and well. He and the tall redhead remained on the other side, sending a dwarf with the first group to lead the crossing.

 

Dis’ heart clenched painfully when the figure of a blond dwarf, carrying two small children through the rushing waters became clearer. It could not be… it was impossible… she bit her lip, forcing herself to be still. “Dwalin…” she whispered.

 

A strong, reassuring hand reached for her arm. “It’s no ghost, Dis, and not him, either…” The huge warrior said in a gentle voice. “I do not know how these two ended up in this mess, but… if you want me to deal with them.”

 

She could see the dwarf quite well by now and she could tell it was not Dari, not her Dari, but so very much like him. “No.” Dis straightened up. “I will want to see that for myself, and what in the name of Moria’s seven fathers compelled my son to join forces with an elf.”

 

The first group reached the shore, a number of them dwarves belonging to their caravan, others total strangers. The blond dwarf set down the two children, thin human children clinging to him. He put them on the grass above the waters. “I will go back and get your, Mum,” he said reassuringly. “you wait here, it won’t be long.”

 

“Belfionn,” Dwalin called out, gesturing the warrior towards him. “I won’t ask how you ended up here, but how many are you bringing?”

 

“About all the contents of the Orc pens under Mount Gundabad, Dwalin.” The response had come from another dwarf, who walked supported by two others.

 

“Bladvila!” Brea dismounted her pony and hurried towards her brother. “Blood and Fire, you look half dead!” She helped him to walk away from the waterline.

 

Dis looked to Dwalin. “Questions can wait, these people need help first and foremost. If they escaped the Orc dungeons they will be in bad shape.” Her eyes strayed to the two children standing on the grass, clinging to each other, watching as the dwarf Dwalin had called Belfionn trudged back through the rushing floods to get their mother.

 

More than an hour later the last group made the crossing and Dis watched her son, with Bilbo and the red-haired elf being the last to cross the Anduin.

 

TRB

 

Dis had asked Dwalin to take charge of all the new arrivals, knowing the matter well placed in his huge hands. She gestured Kili to follow her out of earshot, he followed her uphill. “You brought a lot more people than ours out of the caves,” she observed.

 

“There was a lot more captives, mother,” Kili explained. “We could not leave them in the hands of the Orcs. And sending them away the moment we left the mountain would have been cruel.”

 

It was an answer her brother would have given, Dis knew. Thorin, for all his anger at Men and his rage about Elves had never been someone to leave anyone in the hands of the Orcs, or defenseless if he could help it. “I understand,” Dis said, knowing that Kili’s choices had been limited. “But what now?” She had her own thoughts on the matter but she wanted to see how far he had been thinking, he was a Prince, he had to learn.

 

“They can rest here with us for the night,” Kili said. “tomorrow we see who wants to go home and guide them towards the next village of the Beornings where they will find help. Those who have no home, or nowhere else to go, can come with us. Bard and his people are good Men, they will allow them in Dale.”

 

“I agree on helping them to find the Beornings,” Dis had to admit that that part was good thinking on Kili’s side, the Beornings were good natured and generous, they hated Orcs and would help the victims of Orc cruelty. “But… why do you think, or even propose we take anyone who wants to come with us to Erebor?”

 

Kili crossed his arms in front his chest. “While we walked downriver I talked with some of these people, mother. Did you see the children Fion carried across the ford? They and their mother were captured, and I did not have the impression her husband did go to any length to find her.” He made a fist, hitting a tree. “I know he won’t. We’ve seen it before, mother, when we were South with Thorin. Her husband will mourn her for dead, maybe even remarry. Her return… it won’t go well.” He turned around, looking down the hills. “These are good people, mother, the Orcs kept them because of their skills… they can do better than being scorned for the rest of their lives as Orc-slaves.”

 

Dis could hear the passion, the commitment in his voice. Kili cared, sometimes too much for his own good. And yet, how often had her brother, the very same dwarf who grumbled about the scorn of Men, gone out of his way, or risked his life, to help some other hapless traveler? More than she cared to count, and she probably knew only half of it. Maybe it was her own fault too, she had raised her boys to care about others, to look out for others and take responsibility, now she could not complain that her lessons had taken root. “Alright,” she said. “we will do it your way. But I will take charge of the women and children, make sure they are treated properly.”

 

“I would be glad for that,” Kili said, coming over to her. “I don’t know why but I always get these glances from the girls, even when we are just talking.” He made a face that had Dis laugh heartily.

 

“Your other two companions, who are they?” She asked, after calming down.

 

“Russandol, the Lord of the Dragon Forge and Fion, son of Skar,” Kili had mentioned them when telling of their journey. “they were in the mountain by happenstance.”

 

Dis raised her hands exasperated. “Are you telling me that the son of my Dari’s brother is with you and you did not introduce him to me?” she asked, suddenly understanding why the warrior had looked so familiar.

 

“I did not even have the chance yet, mother.” Kili said. “And I doubt they will be staying. I think they want to go west, to Eriador.”

 

“Even if they intended to leave in this very hour, you will introduce him to me.” Dis said firmly. She knew that Kili had said Fion would follow his mentor, which was all right and proper, but he was still family. And he would always be family, even if that would mean to de-facto adopt a strange elf by proxy. Her house had always had strange allies.

 

TRB

 

Fion felt a bit apprehensive when Kili led him up the hill towards the camp under the tree. He had politely tried to refuse, but Kili had insisted, reminded him that they were cousins and that his mother, the Lady Dis, was a formidable power to be reckoned with. It was unwise to incur her ire. They approached the camp, finding the smallish dwaven woman standing by the fire. Fion bowed. “Belfionn, son of Skar at your…”

 

“..oh, none of that,” Dis stepped closer, clasping his hands in hers. “Is that a way to greet your aunt?” she asked, humor in her eyes. “I am Dis, and I am happy to find one of my family.”

 

Fion gently squeezed her hand. “I am glad to meet you as well,” he said, just so managing to not add a _my Lady_ , thanks to the warning glance she shot him.

 

“And you still don’t know what to make of all that,” Dis said with a wink. “don’t try to hide it, Fion… your Uncle made exactly the same face, when he was overwhelmed with way too much family.” She led him to the fireplace, where they could sit. She noticed Kili had slipped away, but she accepted his tactical retreat. “And you won’t get rid of that, my family tends to be possessive where it comes to friends and family.”

 

Fion shook his head. “It still seems strange, my… Dis,” he said. “I knew only stories about my Uncle, and now… suddenly I find he had a family, a son…”

 

“Is that why you left Erebor in such a hurry?” Dis asked. “Because it was overwhelming? Or was my brother a bit… too much to handle?”

 

“No!” Fion said a bit fiercely. “King Thorin had nothing to do with my decision, and neither had Fili.” He met her eyes. “I had my own reasons to leave.”

 

“That reason being an elf named Russandol,” Dis observed. Dari too had chosen to follow someone, for reasons Dis had never quite been able to read. It had simply been like him, and she saw it clearly in Fion too. “I understand that quite well, but I still hope you will tell me more about you before you chose to wander off again. And… make no mistake… you will have to be there for Thorin’s coronation, all the family will be.”

 

TRB

 

“Let go of yourself, relinquish all that you feel to the void around you,” the voice was musical and hypnotic, making the exercise easier for Kili. “let all that you are bleed into the void, into the emptiness, you do not feel, you do not think… you _are.”_ It was not easy to achieve, to not cling to some stubborn part of himself, to really let go, the mind as still as an unruffled pond.

 

“Now… reach out into the darkness, find the spark… you are the void, given shape, you are the void becoming flame…” At first it had taken him many attempts to do this, but by now the spark leaped into completion, what had been only a vague sense of fire during his first works in the forge, became a well-defined flame, a clear and steady focus in his mind, like one single flame shining brightly into the darkness.

 

Kili opened his eyes, his senses all seemed heightened, he was intensely aware of the fires by the riverbank and of the gushing waters of the Anduin, even the nightly wind seemed to whisper and sing in his ears. Across the fire sat Russandol, having guided Kili through the process, and now that he looked at him, Kili could see the flame with Russandol as well, a shining bright flame… powerful and oh… so bright, like a bonfire on a mountain.

 

“Good,” Russandol could see the flame steadily in the young dwarf, it was strong, if still unshaped. This talent would need much shaping and forming, the promise of great skill and power lay within it, yet to be unlocked, not yet truly tapped into. “you will need to practice your focus each day, it must become your second nature to reach for it, to immerse yourself in it. It will make you aware of magic at work around you, allow you to see artifacts more clearly and to be precise in what you work into your craft.”

 

He saw the dwarf incline his head, and went on. “I saw the hammer you made for your friend, not a bad start but you were careless in how much of yourself you poured into it. You must learn to only draw as much strength as you can handle, and to put precisely what you want into the work and not all that you have in your soul. Allowing your soul to touch your work is always fraught with danger, true soul weapons are powerful, but creating them can consume you, if you lose control over the process. Your focus will allow you this control, if you work at it.”

 

“But, what is a work without passion?” Kili asked. “Making an artifact is not a calculation; it is fire and will…”

 

Russandol’s eyes sparkled with something akin to a smile. There were few who understood the passion of creating things of power, of losing oneself in the process so deeply, it nearly broke one’s own mind, and diving up from that experience stronger. “Control must come first, once you have mastered it, you will be able to work the way you prefer and not be in danger.” He knew that it was said that the talent was becoming rare in this age, and that the age of magic was passing away slowly. He did not quite believe that, maybe they were telling that to themselves because it was safer to believe it, safer to believe that no new terrible and great artifacts would be wrought to echo deeply into the ages to come. When he saw the young dwarf on the other side of the fire, he doubted that, though. Trained well he might create a few things to give a fourth and fifth age their headaches. It was a thought Russandol liked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	10. The long way home

The shape of the huge bear emerged from the morning mists by the riverside, Kili smiled when he saw that familiar shape. When he had sent the Raven south he had hoped that someone from the next Beorning village would respond, but he had hardly expected Beorn himself to come all the way upriver. It had to be him, there was no second bear as huge as that one or with such a scar on his snout, relic of the Battle of Erebor. One daring Orc had managed to hit the bear’s face with an axe but only succeeded in enraging the mighty skinchanger even further. Kili was sitting still on a rock outside camp, having worked on his focus while waiting.

 

The bear vanished and in its stead stood Beorn, the broad-shouldered man grinned down at the dwarf. “You really cannot cross the Mountains without making a visit with the Goblins, can you?” he asked humor in his deep booming voice.

 

Kili stood, even on the rock he had under his feet he had to look up to Beorn. “They had to inconvenience us and you know how it is… most hated blood enemy and all that, what would my ancestors think if I did not keep the feud hot and angry?”

 

“If you keep decimating them, I shall be all for it,” Beorn took the jab at feuds with good humor, they both knew how it was meant. “Your message said you freed a number of Men and that some will need our aid to return home?” He referred to what the crow had told him, he had not needed Kili’s written missive, the bird had been able to tell him a lot more than what the dwarf had penned down.  “Only some? What about the rest?”

 

“Some want to return to their homeland, and I would ask your people to aid them. The others are coming with us to Erebor.” Kili said, he had spent the last day speaking with the survivors, patiently answering questions, encouraging those who had nowhere to turn to and finally finding that a good number of them would take their chances with the dwarves. The other dwarves would either return to their homes in the Misty Mountains or also join them on the way to Erebor.

 

The Bear-man crossed his arms in front of his chest, his eyes piercing as he met Kili’s gaze. “My people will have those who are in need of it. But what about the others? I know that some of them may feel they have nothing to go back to – but shouldn’t they at least try?” he asked a low growl barely constrained in his throat. It was odd that dwarves should be willing to aid Men so willingly. “Why are you even willing to take them with you?”

 

Kili crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Because I have seen this before, Beorn,” he told the shapeshifter. “some years ago Thorin, Fili and I rescued a number of people out of the hands of Dunlendings in Northern Dunland. Don’t ask why… it was Thorin’s idea. Among them was a woman from Drúwaith laur, near the borders of Gondor, she and her little daughter were the only ones from so far south. And we decided to escort her home, she could not cross the wilds alone.” He rubbed his hands against his arms, like he was cold. “She had been a farmer’s wife, prosperous farm not so far from the River Angren… she had been gone for two years, her husband had remarried already, she was accounted for as dead and all – her husband, her _family_ , even her own _mother_ was embarrassed that she did return at all. That she came with three wandering dwarves made things only worse…” He turned away, looking towards the River. “It did not end well.”

 

The heavy man heaved a sigh, well able to read between the lines of the dwarf’s story; he was also able to see the two sides of the tale. To Men two years were a long time, and that farmer, bereft of his wife with no hope for her returning, had probably had other children in need of a mother and could not waste ten years to wait for a miracle that would not happen either way. He acted in accordance of what was prudent and necessary, harsh as that might be. Men had to go on with their lives, short as they were. But Beorn also knew it was something that dwarves could not understand, for to them it was _unthinkable_ to abandon a partner once bonded, a dwarven husband would cross the world, fight any foe and risk any danger to find his wife. Songs of dwarven husbands – or wives – who had journeyed into the deeps to avenge their bondmate or children, were not inventions, they were only accounts of the most famous cases. The dwarfen heart was stubborn, hard won and harder lost, prideful and loyal… they were as willful and unmoving as the stone they had been carved from. In the rare rare cases that a dwarven couple discovered they were not made for each other after all, they would separate, living on the different ends of Middle Earth, never seeing each other again and still they would remain faithful to their erstwhile partner. “Are there so many cases where you fear it might end like that?” he asked, trying to assess the situation a little more.

 

Kili hopped off the rock and walked with him, until they could see the river. Down by the waterside the shapeshifter saw a dwarf help several women to bundle up a few things on a pony. Children, thin children, many clad in clothes that had to be borrowed from dwarves, were close by. Two scrambled uphill towards Kili. “Mother is saying we go on a great journey…” the blond boy sputtered excitedly. “she says we are going to a place where… where the dark people will never find us.”

 

There was a wealth of hurt in the eyes of these children. Kili smiled at them, gently hugging both. “You will, Erebor is a great fortress city, you will be safe there. Now… go and help your mother, I will be down with you shortly.” The two darted off, back down to the women, their mother having already called for them, as to not disturb Kili.

 

The dwarf looked up to Beorn. “There were a number of women and children in that den, Beorn, many of them having been there for a year or more. Their mother… she is afraid to go back home, I think she knows what she’ll find. If her husband was worth the name he’d have gone after her and freed her long before they could reach the mountains.”

 

“You think badly of Men, Kili,” Beorn said sternly. “’tis not surprising with what you saw in Eriador… a few of these women must be from Eriador as well.”

 

Kili shook his head. “I do not think badly of men, or the world of men in general, Beorn.” He said sharply, anger rising in him. “my best friend was of their kin and I know that there is much of courage and bravery in the world of Men but… I am not blind either. And I will not send another woman home only to find her dead by the Riverside not long after.”

 

Beorn looked at the young dwarf thoughtfully, he well remembered the human warrior who had been with them on their travels. He still felt that it would be fair on the families of these people if they gave them a chance and returned home, yet… he also understood that they had chosen otherwise. It was a rational choice, one that the shapechanger guessed Kili did not fully understand either. A number of these women might truly fear that by the time they returned home their place would be gone, their families having moved on, others might prefer not to return for other reasons. And they probably had taken a good look at the dwarven caravan and weighed their own prospects. Dwarves may have a mixed reputation at best, but they were known as capable survivors and a people that would always get back to their feet. And these dwarves were on their way back to their re-taken kingdom, chances were that there would be work and prosperity along that way. Beorn sighed, Men were nothing but pragmatic and many of the lasses down there would have taken the pragmatic view on the matter. “Alright, it is not my place to make their choices,” he agreed, giving some ground. “but I will talk to them nevertheless, ask them if they want any messages delivered.”

 

Kili inclined his head. “Thank you, Beorn. I feel better leaving those we cannot take with us in your hands; I know you will make sure they get home safely.”

 

TRB

 

Night had fallen and the camp was still restless, by morning the carts would be rolling again, the days of rest were over. Kili stood by the fire with Fion. “You are headed west again, I take it?” he asked after a while of silence.

 

“Aye,” Fion replied. “back across the Mountains, but we will take the  High Pass this time. It is your fault, you know – you were the one to tell Rú of Goblin Town.”

 

Kili laughed, amused. “I had no idea he would take an interest into paying them a visit.” He regretted that these two were leaving, he would have liked for them to come with them back to Erebor… but Russandol was searching for his brother and if Kili could understood something it was searching for one’s own brother. “Just keep him from re-visiting Moria, will you?” he joked lightly.

 

“I will… and you… be careful and protect Aunt Dís.” The cousins looked at each other, then hugged, in silent promise.

 

TRB

 

With the first light of a fine summer’s day the caravan of the dwarves moved again, beginning their journey northeast. They kept safely away from the outskirts of the great woodlands they could see to their right as they journeyed on. When they finally turned fully east, the fruitful valley of Anduin lay behind them and before them stretched the wide heathers that lay between the rim of Mirkwood and the foothills of the Grey Mountains. An austere landscape of yellow grass, green and brown spots with the shining purple of the heather in bloom, all strewn between the stark grey bones of the Ered Mithrin, here and there blinked the eyes of small pools and ponds, and the mountain pines and the dancing birches of the North forming small spots of woodland in between the open landscape.

 

Kili guided his horse parallel to the moving groups of carts and ponies, with the Misty Mountains behind them the constant danger of Orc attacks had passed but the Ered Mithrin was neither empty nor safe and he and his fighters still spent a lot of time defending the long trek. But at least it was not as frequent as it had been before.

 

“You are in a good mood today,” Bilbo observed, the Hobbit rode beside Kili, the journey out in the open had begun to give him quite the tan. “You even smile at this place… you do not happen to having been here before?”

 

“No, we never went so far north, no paying work in these parts.” Kili replied, his eyes still on the landscape ahead of them. “But Bilbo… I do not know why, but for the first time since we began this journey, the land _sings_ to me again. This place… it feels like home, it feels _right._ ” He leaned his head back and let the warm summer wind brush against his wild mane.

 

“Your ancestors used to live in the Grey Mountains,” Bilbo pointed out. “maybe… maybe you begin to feel connected to the land, to your homeland.” Over his time with the dwarves Bilbo had begun to learn how strong their link to their mountains was. Maybe Kili would have to learn such a connection at first, having lived a wandering life. “I mean… it’s a beautiful land, if a bit austere. Sandy grounds, not good for farming, too many bogs too but bees should thrive here.”

 

Kili laughed warmly, coming out of his dreaming. “If my people are of the stone, yours must be of the Earth, Bilbo.” He said. “But… you have taken a liking to this land too, haven’t you?”

 

“It is all your fault that I am as un-hobbitish as to love wild lonely lands more than orderly gardens,” Bilbo teased him.

 

They stopped their horses when they reached the point where their path was winding through a boggy spot of land. The carts had to move slowly and riders needed to lead their horses. Kili dismounted, walking along with the column.

 

“… of old there would be a road that led down from the Twin’s Heights towards Erebor, but it was destroyed in the First war of the Grey Mountains.” Kili looked to the side to see old Narvi walking with Fjalari, one arm on his granddaughter’s shoulder, as she guided his step. Had Kili not known that the old bladesmith’s eyes had been taken by the dragon’s fire so long ago, he would not have guessed it. It was a foolish thought, Narvi had survived the fall of Erebor, his injury and the long exile, he was more capable than some who had their two eyes healthy.

 

The whitehaired dwarf turned his head, eerily like he could see Kili. “If we can hold this course for the next five weeks we should be at Erebor before autumn sets fully in.” he observed.

 

“How… you heard me?” Kili had been convinced that his step could not be distinguished amongst the noise of the carts and horses.

 

Narvi laughed uproariously. “No, laddie, it is the flame, I can feel your presence as clearly as if you were a bonfire on a cold evening. And you are beginning to focus already – that’s something that took others longer.”

 

Kili smiled, Narvi had taught Thorin the craft, the old dwarf was one great masters and a great friend too. “I had someone to teach me, at least a little,” he explained.

 

“Aye, I know of whom you speak,” Narvi replied, “the Lord of the Dragon Forge.”

 

“The one you told me stories about?” Fjalari frowned, she was about Fili’s age, the only grandchild left of the ancient blacksmith clan. “but you always said they were legends…”

 

“There is a lesson for you, young one.” Narvi told her a warm laugh in his voice. “In this ancient good world you will never be sure what legends still may walk the land, what old stories may spring to life from the grass and what ancient magic will find us if we only journey far enough. The day that changes, the day the legends die and the stories fade… the day this world becomes plain and without magic it will be time to go back into the stone and sleep until Mahal will need us to reforge Arda.”

 

They all three fell silent for a while, just walking on the murky path between the bogs. “I think we’d better begin with reforging Erebor,” Fjalari observed pragmatically. “if half what was whispered about that dragon is true, cleaning up the city will not be funny at all, and the mines… they will take some work, not to mention of the old forges. Kili… do you know how much damage the dragon did to the old ventilations?”

 

Kili fell into step beside them, relaxing. Narvi was an old friend and Fjalari had been an apprentice they had teased when she had still worn her dark hair in her mother’s style, with seven braids. Kili had often tied them together somewhere, and as often got a hammer thrown at him in retaliation. “From what I saw before I left, the damage to the air shafts was nominal, but some may be clogged up with rubble. You can count yourself lucky, Fjalari, those who remained behind will have been sweeping up coins from corridors for weeks.”

 

“And you left your poor brother to the unpleasant task!” Fjalari shook her head. “I hope we get there soon so that we can begin our work.”

 

Weeks past and the heather fell behind them, until they reached what had been known as the Desolation of Smaug and finally came to the lands around the Mountain. Kili could keenly see the first changes, the valleys where Men had begun to break open the grounds and sown crops. Sheep were again grazing on the heather as well, free of fear from the winged terror that had ruled this land for so long. And behind the green landscape rose the mighty Mountain with the snowcapped peak glistening in the sun: Erebor.

 

Dis leaned on her axe as they climbed the last ridge. Ahead of them swung the wide valley of Dale and behind it she saw the familiar stone statues beside the main gate. A lifetime ago she had fled from that very gate, scrambling uphill with the many others who had made it out, not daring to look back. For long years she had dreamt of the Mountain home, and now that she stood here, tears stung her eyes when the familiar shape of the icy peak greeted her. “We’re home… we are finally home.”

 

TRB

 

By the time she finally could get some rest Dis was exhausted, but she was happy. Most of their people were camped across the ancient city, having finally arrived in their homeland. This evening they would simply rest, luxuriate in the chance to sleep behind secure fortress walls, and tomorrow the rebuilding would begin. It was Fili who had found her and after a fierce hug, led her towards their quarters. Dis had held her son for a moment and then looked at him thoughtfully. Like with Kili she had send a youth into the world and a warrior had returned. He led her towards the old palace quarters but then took a sharp turn avoiding the main royal quarters leading her to a large room. Some only semi-damaged furniture made the stark room habitable, a few chairs, some table that did not fit them and a huge fireplace where the comforts it held.

 

But still, Dis could see touches of her brother and son everywhere. The table was stacked with maps, plans and other things pertaining the mountain and the shelf was room for weapons and other things impractical. She smiled, suddenly feeling home, this place could have well been in Cardemir.

 

Thorin welcomed her with a strong hug. “Welcome home, Dis.” He said warmly. “It has been a long time… but we are home.”

 

Dis smiled up at him. “I see a lot of cleaning and organizing ahead of me.” She winked at him. “I guess the dragon made a mess of the rest of the royal palace?”

 

“Largely,” Thorin replied. “he rifled the place for treasures… I did not check further. We had other worries.”

 

Soon they sat by the fire and Dis heard how the summer had progressed on Erebor, farming had begun outside and some trading had begun to bring in enough supplies for winter, for the whole populace. She was surprised to hear of Bard and his people and of Thorin’s decision to allow them inside Erebor. Dis had heard much in the words of her brother as he explained and seen more than she let on. Thorin had changed, deeply changed, more than she had imagined he could. “As of now the people of Dale populate most of the Eastern side of the mountain, near the trade gate,” Thorin said, showing her a map. “but we will expand to the North to give them quarters of their own.”

 

As the evening progressed Dis noticed that Thorin often had made his plans together with Fili, often wanting his opinions on matter they discussed. It was unlike Thorin to actively seek advice, and to hear out his nephews… sons… that was truly change. She looked for Kili, who should take a more active role in the discussions, to notice him gone. “Where is Kili?” She asked. “He should be here.”

 

“He was called out,” Fili said. “Dwalin had some news on troubles and Elrohir and his riders have their hands full protecting the settlements. Kili grabbed Bilbo and some others to help out.”

 

“I should have guessed,” Dis replied dryly, returning to the plans. She had not even noticed Kili leaving, because she had been so focused on what they had told her. “So… let us continue.”

 

TRB

 

“I beg your pardon, my Lady, but this place is a mess.” Brea stood with the sleeves of her tunic pushed to her elbows, having just dropped a whole pile of broken junk on a large heap at the end of the hall. The cleaning of the city was in full swing. “if someone had told me that I would one day pick up some coin from _dragon dung_ …”

 

Dis couldn’t help it but laugh. It was too crazy, she had to admit. “I dare hardly say it, but the palace looks worse, Brea, and no one has cared to clean up there as of yet. Except for the areas my brother designated for _storage._ ”

 

“Sweet mother of the stone!” Brea shook her head. “Men! Leave Male dwarves to clean house and they will do so by reconstructing the place. I will see that we free up some work crews to take care of that, my Lady. Could you be so wonderful to pry Bilbo from Kili’s side for a while? The great library was spared the fire, but is in chaos otherwise. We have dwarves who can scrub floors and mend broken mechanics, we have many dwarves who can rebuild homes and so forth… but point them to something like a book… and they will run in search for the next battle to fight. Reading must be a secret torture.”

 

“I shall talk to Kili, he seems fairly tied up in the issues with defense.” She replied, there were raiders and thieves in abundance it seemed, and even with the warriors they had brought they could only just so man the fortress and send out some patrols. Dis’ heart still clenched when she saw the warriors of the reach that were amongst the fighters of Erebor, but the happy thought that the Reach had survived the dragon was far stronger than the sadness for past losses.

 

Her eyes went over the sprawling city of Erebor, give them another year and this would again be a place of light, of hope, they had rebuild far worse places than that. And standing here, in the midst of her people Dis knew she had truly come home. It had been journey across the world, through storm and fire, pain and suffering, through tears and laughter, hope and despair… but they had come home. Mahal, they had come home.

 

Erebor 3 Years later

 

Thorin stood beside one of the mighty pillars above the hall behind the Icewind Gate of Erebor, neither guards nor other people paid much attention; his people were used to his unannounced presence in the various parts of the sprawling Kingdom under the Mountain. This part of the fortress city along with the Northern Gate had only been finished earlier this year as they had expanded into the North flank to create a home for the people of Dale. Still the richest of the dwarven Kingdoms, Thorin knew that their true wealth lay in an unexpected blessing bestowed upon them. In the year after their return an unusually high number of children had been born to his people, the little dwarflings that would grow up in the safety of Erebor’s mighty walls were the much greater treasure than even the Mithrál mines that prospered under Bofur’s wise guidance.

 

The last three years had been busy ones, but good ones too, each day Thorin could see the Kingdom under the Mountain and the land outside the Mountain blossom more and more. The years had not been without their problems either – the rumor of the vast wealth of Erebor had spread quickly and many had sought the claim what lay unguarded. The mighty wings of Icewind gate began to swing open as the order was barked from above. Thorin looked down towards the gauntlet, seeing a rider on the pale horse pass the gate once it was open wide enough. He knew that horse well.

 

The white horse seemed too tall for a dwarf, but Kili preferred a fast and strong mount to a slower and reliable one. And Mahal’s hammer, he needed it! In the very night of the Exile’s Return Home Kíli had ridden out to assist a village that was being attacked by Wilderland Raiders, and it had only been the first of many such moments. With the dwarves from the Ered Luin the mountain had found miners, craftspeople and merchants, but warriors were still in short supply and the people of the Reach too had suffered grievous losses during the Battle of the Five Armies, as had the men of Dale. Erebor had enough troops the man the fortress and patrol the roads, but it was for one or two skirmishes to erupt that a third call for aid may go unanswered for hours.

 

Within a few months Kili had grown into his new task, still not quite comfortable with his role as Crown Prince of Erebor he had grown into a true protector of the people. The first time Thorin had no troops to send after a band of roving brigands, Kili had gone only with the few that had ridden with him during the long march, taking out the robbers, bringing the stolen goods back to village they belonged to. He had continued on doing that, and with the army slowly growing Dwalin sent him more and more against the more uncommon problems, like the creatures from Southern Mirkwood or from the Northern lands and legend of the dwarven prince had already grown like weeds under the summer rains, as Bilbo had put it after they came back from chasing two stonewyrms that had been terrorizing their eastern borders.

 

Thorin watched Kili bring the horse about in the hall, the animal was restless and it took Dwalin’s firm hand in the reins to make it stand still entirely. The bald warmaster was always there when Kili came back from another fight, a firm friendship had grown between them ever since the quest and Thorin was glad to see it. In spite of the hard life he had led, Dwalin had not he lost his zeal for life. In the wake of the painful loss of his brother, the last of his family, he had not broken nor become a hollow shell and Thorin believed that the friendship between his old friend and Kili had helped Dwalin to recover from that wound. “How bad was it?” Dwalin asked and only now Thorin noticed the two children on the horse. A small auburn haired child in front of Kili and a bigger one behind him.

 

Kili lifted the child up and handed it down to Dwalin. “Have someone bring those two to Deep Dale, will you? Their grandparents are silk traders there, they are half southern and I hardly understand what they are saying.”

 

Dwalin gestured two guards to take the children. “I’ll send Lachanar to deal with that, he knows the trade quarters front and back and can talk a Dragon’s Ear off if he wants to. But you are evading the question, _my Prince._ ”

 

Kili dismounted the horse as well, so the stable boys could lead it away. “Trolls,” he said grimly. “Five of them, must have come from the Withered Heath, they had made their sweet camp in the caves under Barrow Mound. Did I ever mention I hate Trolls? At least there was no sage involved this time.”

 

Up where he stood Thorin bit his lip, there was a large part in him that wanted to go down and chide Kili for being reckless. Going up against several trolls alone! But he did not say a word, Kili had grown into a fine warrior and very skilled fighter, he knew how to handle himself in such situations. He was not that boy Thorin loved to remember, but a warrior in his own right, he had turned 80 the last autumn and by now no one would whisper that he was too young, even if he still showed not much of a beard. Thorin heard Dwalin’s laughter ring up from down below. “Not all trolls are cooks, Kili, a certain trio notwithstanding.”

 

Both warriors walked slowly out of the entrance hall. “Let’s go up to _Frostwind Hall_ telling you about trolls will be more fun over a jar of wine,” Kili said. “And I have heard some interesting rumors up from the Withered Heath, some hunters think they have located a drake nest…”

 

“Much as I’d love to talk you out of gifting your esteemed father with a dragon egg over a keg, Lady Dís wants to see you right away.” Dwalin grumbled. “Must be important, for she made it a point to tell me twice.”

 

Kili laughed. “If you called her _Lady Dís_ , she will have thrown something at you, her hammer preferably. Of some ink jar if Brea was close by.” He tilted his head as they walked out of the gauntlet. “And you really do not have any idea what this is about.”

 

Dwalin snorted. “You can think of what it is. And if you can’t, you have been sneaking away the last fifty times the discussion came up.”

 

“Usually Fili gives me the summary of that later,” Kili agreed. “But yes… I can guess what it is about. You better come along, Dwalin, we may need reinforcements there.”

 

TRB

 

Dís was not surprised that her sons would arrive in nearly lockstep at her study. They might have been in different parts of the Mountain or even outside, but they would always gravitate back to each other once they reached the palace. She was also unsurprised that Kili had been bringing Dwalin to the discussion; she greeted the old friend of the family warmly. “Dwalin, take a seat, I am glad you came as well – we might need your help.”

 

Dwalin sat down in one of the comfortable chairs before her fireplace. “What has you worried, my Lady?” he asked, he could well guess what this was about – there were only two immediate topics, but he would not assume, it might well be that something else had happened.

 

“There is no worried Lady here, Dwalin.” Dís sat down, leaving the procurement of goblets and wine to her sons. “only the sister of a King trying to get some form into a kingdom positively allergic to formalities.” She thanked Fili with a nod when he handed her the goblet. “It has been more than three years since we returned, four since Smaug fell, Dwalin… and while no one in his right mind inside this Mountain would question Thorin’s leadership, there _are_ whispers among the other dwarven kingdoms, many wonder why Thorin has not been formally crowned King under the Mountain. His hesitation creates questions, Dwalin, he is the descendant of the Elder Line of Durin’s House, and as such stands above them… but his tarrying creates tensions.”

 

“Have you talked to him about that?” Dwalin asked, crossing his mighty arms in front of his chest. “I agree on the principle, I would prefer to know that we do no longer stand on the oaths sworn to when your grandfather ruled these halls, but on oaths to our true King. But… I understand that Thorin is hesitant. His father’s fate was never confirmed.”

 

“I have spoken to him,” Dís said, her fingers drumming on the side of her armchair. “and I asked him if he wished to conduct any search for Thrain’s fate. But… he seems to know enough of our father’s fate. It is not what casts doubts on him, something else makes him hesitant.” He eyes went to her sons, who sat side by side, with Kili leaning close to his brother to whisper something to him. “And I suspect you two would know something, you were with him during the quest… and I was given to understand that you were witness when he destroyed the Arkenstone.”

 

Dwalin had to exercise some control when he heard that, he did not know what the boys had told their mother on how the Arkenstone had been lost, but it seemed they had been more than creative with the truth.

 

“And the Arkenstone was a symbol of Thrór’s rule, may he sleep in a pile of gold,” Kili said dryly. “Mother – everyone in this Mountain knows Thorin is King, with or without a spectacle called coronation. Why do we care what Dáin and his ilk think?”

 

“Because – because this is a matter of precedence in between the dwarven Houses and…” Dís gasped for air, when she saw Kili grin at her with all brazenness he had displayed as a boy, he had goaded her on purpose.

 

“I will talk to Thorin, Mother,” Fili said gently, like always he was there to prevent a clash of tempers between the more hot-headed members of his family.

 

“Talk to me about what?” Thorin had entered Dís study, unsurprised to find most of the family and his best friend assembled there. He cast an amused glance at Dwalin. “If they are getting you into ganging up on me, it must be truly important this time.”

 

Dwalin sighed, he wished Balin was here to talk sense to Thorin, to gently remind him of what was necessary. His brother had always had the right words, had known when to approach Thorin about such things. “Thorin,” Dwalin began, feeling his lack of words weighting him down. “the Mountain needs a King. No one doubts you, and I’ll bash Dáin’s skull if he says otherwise. But… if you do not take the throne formally…” he did not find the good arguments, he needed. “I wish Balin were here to tell you,” he grumbled. “he would know what to say.”

 

Walking towards the fireplace Thorin leaned against the warm stones, here, inside these rooms he allowed his outward role to slip away, here he was less of a king, but a father, brother, friend. “I had to wait, Dwalin…” he said, his eyes going to the dancing flames. “…I needed to be sure, sure I could do it… that I would not fall to it again.”

 

Dís frowned. “Fall to what?” She asked, looking up at her brother, then her eyes widened. “Oh no… Thrór’s sickness, father’s madness… do not tell me that you too? No… you can’t, Thorin!” Dís jumped to her feet. “I lost a father and a grandfather to it… not you to… not you, please.”

 

Thorin wordlessly drew his sister into a hug, he alone knew how Dis had suffered during their childhood, with the shadow of Thrór’s gold sickness and their father’s increasing strangeness haunting her. “It was short-lived,” he tried to reassure her. “Fili and Kili… they broke me out of it.”

 

“And you feared it might happen again,” Dis understood what Thorin was saying. The mines had picked up work three years ago, and they were very productive, gold and mithrál mines both. The Mountain was not only rich in the treasure they had liberated from the dragon, but in all that was brought up to the light every new day. It was a sign of wisdom that Thorin had been careful. “Still… we can’t wait much longer. If you wait more than five years and the first people might consider that it is the dragonslayer that should take the throne…”

 

“Me? No!” Kili protested loudly.

 

Thorin could not help it but laugh his deep rumbling laugh at Kili’s loud protests. His son was still uncomfortable with his role and… Thorin sighed, a coronation would also mean formally naming his crown prince... His eyes met Fili’s gaze and somehow Fili again knew what he was thinking and gave him an encouraging smile. How he always managed to step back behind his brother without the slightest envy amazed and humbled Thorin. “Very well then,” he said to them, his eyes going back to Dis. “I will comply, we will have the coronation next Durin’s Day. But – I _will_ negotiate all the formalities you deem so important.”

 

Dís shook her head. “I should have expected that.” She stated dryly. “And I will be a tough negotiator.”

 

TRB

 

Fili approached the workshop located at the heart of Fireguard Hold, the heart of the craftspeople districts, it was nested between bladesmith’s forges and armorer’s shops, there was nearly no workshop in this hold that was not a craft of fire and metal. He approached Narvi’s forge on soft feet entering through the side entrance, at once spotting two debating figures in the background. Peering around he also spotted a familiar black head. “Fjalari!” he whispered, making his presence known.

 

Fjalari put aside her work and waved him to come in. “Fili! I had not expected to see you today, not after Bofur said they found this new mineral formation…” her voice trailed off as her eyes went towards the back of the large workshop where her grandfather was discussing something with Thorin. “Or are you here for King Thorin?”

 

“How long have they been debating?” Fili asked softly, with a wink at her.

 

“Three hours,” Fjalari, replied with a chuckle. “I a understand the problem, I truly do, but… I do not see issue with the solutions at all.”

 

Fili tilted his head, carefully checking that the two debating dwarves had not spotted them. “Enlighten me.”

 

Fjalari handed him one of her tongs as she was twisting gold wire into a mesh. “Thrór’s black crown was lost in Moria, that much is well known.” She said calmly. “And the ancient crown of Erebor… the dragon sat on that one, it is deformed beyond repair. So, making a new crown is a necessity, his Highness insists to not having it made of gold. Another point I understand, though it will confuse people a lot. A simple silver crown is of course beyond his station…”

 

“Which puts us in a bind, especially as he does not want mithrál either.” Fili said, he knew why Thorin would not want gold… it was a dark metal, and it had hurt him too deeply. “But I do not see a solution.”

 

Fjalari laughed softly, shaking her head. “No disrespect meant, my Lord, but your family sometimes is… adorably direct in their dislikes.” She said. “Take a good lode of Moonsilver, add a third Mithrál, and a full half of pure Titanium Steel to the mix, and put it through a three staged smelter, adding another third of Mithrál on the last stage,” Fjalari twisted the wires tightly together, the mesh slowly taking shape. “pray to Mahal that the smelter does not blow when the run-off begins… and what do you get?”

 

Fili’s eyes widened. “Star-steel, Fjalari… are you saying your grandfather and you built such a smelter again?” He asked.

 

“With a Mithrál mine we are practically sitting on?” Fjalari replied. “We worked all year on that smelter.” She took the tong from him again, bringing both ends of the mesh together. “I know it is unusual, not to say untraditional, but… King Thorin is a warrior king…”

 

“I agree, it would fit, and it would end any debates on gold or no gold.” Fili agreed with a smile. “You have been thinking about this for some time, haven’t you?”

 

“A little,” Fjalari peered towards the back of the workshop. “honestly, I have been thinking more of a shape for a possible crown, trying to guess what way your family will go with it. It needs to be something that fits him after all, and it needs to go with his habit of wearing his hair like this… so circlet shape, I did guess, no prongs, but elaborately formed, which requires a flexible but very durable and strong material…”

 

Now it was Fili’s turn to shake his head. “Women… you have us debate the materials while already planning the finer details, I should have my mother involve you into her plannings.” He teased her.

 

“Please don’t,” Fjalari suddenly grew serious. “it would not be my place. We can talk of such things here, and laugh at them, because we learned our first works on the very same anvil… but anything else would be wrong. Your mother certainly will have her own ideas for the crown and for an appropriate crown prince’s circlet as well. And your Father he is such a great crafter himself… he may have his own ideas too.”

 

Fili sighed, he did not wish for this rift between them, he still wished he could ask Fjalari to come with him to Dís to discuss this, like he would have done in the Ered Luin. He disliked the gulf station and the conquest of Erebor had opened between them. Fjalari was a proud dwarf, a crafter in her own right, tough she still worked in her grandfather’s forge and she would not shame herself by stepping beyond her station. “Let… let us suggest it to Thorin,” Fili said. “I will do the talking if you prefer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, this is not the end – though I apologize for this chapter ends at such a strange point. Until Easter my schedule is going to be very crazy and I will probably not have much time to write. So I have to ask your patience, until my life is back to normal. THANK YOU. 
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	11. Chapter 11

** Chapter 11: A whirl of excitement **

****

The great library of Erebor was situated inside what was known as the Scribe’s Well, a large winding stair leading up to the interlinked halls that housed books, scrolls and gathered notes on more topics than one person could keep track of. Or so Bilbo thought as he mounted the last flight of stairs to reach the heart of library – the Hall of Cardûn, which had originally been the Royal Library, holding whatever writings had been salvaged from Moria and later rescued from the Grey Mountains. With the passing of the centuries the Hall had become too small to hold all the accumulated knowledge and the Kings had commissioned the great library. By the time the dragon came the Great Library had expanded into most of the Well of Scribes, with seven major halls and many more small ones. It still seemed a miracle of massive proportions that the Library had been spared the fire the day the dragon came, though it had not escaped damage otherwise. When Smaug had shattered the Skydome parts of the library had collapsed, and parts of the Well had been trashed by the dragon in a fit of rage sometime after the mountain fell, collapsing parts of two halls.

 

By now only the new shelves and the different organization of the library reminded of the fact it had been nearly destroyed more than a century ago. Bilbo couldn’t help but smile when he walked into the Hall of Cardûn, when Lady Dis had asked him to help with restoring the library he had expected to assist a number of dwarven scholars in the task. Instead he had been guiding a number of young dwarves through their first hesitant steps on the way to erudition. Amongst the returning Exiles were workers, crafters of all kinds, rugged warriors and mercenaries, but the bookish, well-read and scholarly of their kind had either died during the long exile or changed their ways in order to survive in the world. Those young dwarves set on the path of learning usually were those unsuited for other avenues of life, and many had been fairly self-conscious when they had arrived here but they flourished soon enough. Bilbo had never expected to become the Loreseeker of Erebor, as the formal name of the Head Librarian was.

 

He smiled as he put his sword into the weapon’s holder that stood at every entrance of the halls. Head Librarian of a people whose language he did not speak! Kíli had amended that. He had begun to teach Bilbo Khuzdul, which had been a signal to the others that it was permitted to teach Bilbo the language that the dwarves held sacred. More than even the braid tucked behind his ear this had told Bilbo that the dwarves had come to see him as one of their own. Khuzdul was a gift from their creator, and like all the things he had passed onto them, the dwarves guarded it jealously. And a fascinating tongue it was. The use of runes alone was complex, in some forms of Khuzdul they simply substituted for the alphabet and were used like letters, but in several ancient version of Khuzdul, Runes were words, their meaning changing through the most subtle changes in their form, demanding a keen eye and lots of patience to unriddle their layered messages. There were the seven kingdoms of the dwarves where the language had evolved differently as well. The Erebor dwarves spoke a variety that had evolved from ancient Moria-Khuzdul but changed a lot since they had left their ancestral home, the Blacklock dwarves like Bofur and Bifur used an entirely different grammar and Broadbeams again used a lot of terms differently and spoke in a brogue that pronounced all nine vowels differently. Bilbo still enjoyed digging deeper into a tongue that was so colorful and multi-faceted.

 

“Bilbo!” Skadi, one of the young librarians came hurrying towards him, she was a small-ish, stout dwarf with three dark brown ponytails whipping after her. “Prince Fíli and Bard of Dale are here and Prince Fíli asked for _Averlain’s Chronicles of Moria_ but unfortunately all of those are with Lady Dis at the moment and I can’t think of another book to cover the same topic for the very life of me.”

 

Bilbo’s glance fell to one of the niche’s where Fíli and Bard were standing and he had an inkling what Fíli was looking for. “Tarvi’s _On the House of Durin and the Foundations of Moria_ , should be helpful.” he said, pointing towards the section of shelves that would hold the heavy tome. “if you can ignore his digressions about crystal gardening, that is. His style is hard to read and sometimes he is blathering like an old dwarrow… which he actually was when he wrote his masterpiece.”

 

Skadi chuckled as they retrieved the heavy tome. It sat on one of the higher shelves, but Bilbo swiftly stepped on the rolling ladder. Always good mechanics the dwarves had quickly tired of Bilbo’s use of an old chair to reach the upper shelves and had constructed an aid for him that could move along the shelf sides. With the book in his hands Bilbo went towards where Bard and Fíli stood by one of the stone tables in a niche. “… I know it must sound strange to your ears,” Fíli just said. “but things being what they are the whole ceremony has us in a bind.”

 

Both man and dwarf stopped talking when Bilbo joined them. Bilbo smiled at Fíli. “I guessed it was about the coronation question – again and thought this might help you explain.” He said with a wink.

 

Bard arched an eyebrow at the Halfling. “You sound like you know your way around the whole topic, Master Bilbo.” He observed.

 

Bilbo shrugged. “I had time to read some of the relevant tomes, not to mention listen to some of the discussions as they occurred.” Kíli had been glad to talk to someone about the snags that were linked with the ceremony and why Thorin and Dis were having such debates.

 

Fíli put the book on the table. “Maybe you could try to explain to Bard, Bilbo?” he asked. “I feel I am woefully failing at it.”

 

“Let us sit down, Fíli,” Bilbo suggested, slipping onto the bench beside the stone table. “that topic is a large one.” The three settled around the table and Bilbo idly opened the book in the first chapters were a genealogy chart and calendar of the dwarves were displayed, before he looked at Bard. “There are three possible ceremonies the dwarves know for coronation, direct succession, battlefield coronation and a coronation in Durin’s tradition. The direct succession being of course the most common – a dying King would name is heir and a guardian of the crown. The Guardian usually being an older relative of the King-to-be, who would then perform the actual crowning. In cases where no guardian was named, often an older relative would be asked to perform the ceremony anyway, to keep things smooth. That ceremony can’t be used obviously as Thorin himself is the oldest survivor of Durin’s House, his father and grandfather being dead and so are whatever Uncles and Granduncles he might have had long ago. The only older cousin he has is Dain Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, but he is of the lesser line so he cannot serve in such an exalted role.”

 

Bard nodded slowly, the significance of the one who passed the crown to the future King was not lost on the Man, even as he sometimes wondered why such complexities were needed with a perfectly pragmatic people like the dwarves. “So battlefield coronation would make sense, would it? They won the mountain in a battle after all.”

 

“No.” Bilbo said. “Battlefield coronations usually occur only after major wars, like conquering an entire new kingdom, or when a King falls in a great campaign. Such wars are defined by most of their people being involved, Bard. Had King Thrór succeeded and they had taken Moria, they might have gone that way. Because in a war coronation the crown is passed from the armies – usually represented by the War-Master or the Captain of the Axe – to the King. It is a powerful symbol – the armies who did the real conquest, the real fighting, handing the power back to the one they chose to follow. Only – the quest for Erebor was no major war and the Battle of the Five Armies was fought by others…”

 

“The company then?” Bard asked, leaning his arms on the side of the table. He wondered if any King of Men ever had to deal with half the symbolisms he was confronted with here. “They were the ones who followed King Thorin on this quest, fought for him…”

 

“Thorin himself made a powerful argument for this way of reading things,” Bilbo said with a small smile wrinkling his brows. Thorin could be stubborn with the best of them and Dís was used to dig in and not budge. “But the problem in this reading of events is that it was Kíli who shot the dragon. Having the crown be passed from a younger member of the house to an older one… it simply is not done, Bard. Had Balin lived… maybe we could have found a way to work with this, but thus…” Bilbo’s voice trailed off. Even four years after the old dwarf’s passing he was deeply saddened by his loss. Balin had been a kind soul and wise friend, and he probably would have had the answers for questions such as this before any of them.

 

He felt Fíli’s hand on his shoulder, the comrades often silently shared the mourning for those whom they had lost on the quest. Bilbo drew a deep breath and straightened up. “Which was when Thorin suggested going back to Durin’s tradition, though it is the rarest of them all. When Durin originally founded Moria, he did so with the dwarves he found under Mt. Gundabad and under the Mountains of Moria, he became their leader… but at that time the dwarves had no Kings, their entire society only had begun to grow. And when the city of Moria was finished, the three masters – the Master of the Pit, the Head Miner, the Master of the Forge, the Head Crafter and the Master of the Chest, the Head Trader – came to Durin the Deathless, they spoke in the name of the entire folk of Moria and asked him to be their King. He was crowned by those three – signifying the unity of a King and his people. I don’t know if it has been done again ever since…”

 

“Grey Mountains,” Fíli interjected. “King Thorin I who led most of the survivors of Moria to the Grey Mountains and founded the Kingdom under the Twin’s Guard Mountains,” the blond dwarf leaned back in his seat. “as the others of his family chose to remain with his father, Thrain I who founded the original Erebor Kingdom… he too was in a bind, when his own Kingdom in the Grey Mountains grew to a size and shape that he was crowned in his own right.”

 

Bard rubbed his chin, letting the words sink in. “I will admit the idea is unusual – commoners normally do not have a role in the crowning of a King… not that I’d know that much of it, either way.” He may be descended from the Lords of Dale, but he had grown up a soldier, something of a leader but far away from the role of a King or Lord.

 

Bilbo shook his head, recalling his numerous conversations with Bofur during the quest and after, there was a strong link between Durin’s House and their people, especially with this generation who had led their people through the long Exile. “Why not?” he asked Bard. “Durin’s folk… their people have a great trust in Thorin, in Durin’s house, they followed them across the length and breadth of Middle Earth, and Durin’s House has protected them, led them through the storm and never let them down. Thorin found them a new home, when they were scattering after Azanulbizar, Thorin led them back to Erebor – and they trusted him and followed him, knowing he’d protect them.” He recalled the many stories of the Children of Azanulbizar he had penned down, the many stories about Thorin he had heard from them. “It would fit perfectly.”

 

TRB

 

Glóin was all but stomping through the gates of Wildfyre Hall, his new founded home in Erebor, his red beard quivering angrily as he walked. He was greeted by Óin, his brother a welcome sight to the peppery dwarf. He saw the grey bearded dwarf raise his hand. “Grís is resting and I do not want her stressed.” The healer said sternly. “After losing her child five years ago her new pregnancy is not easy for her.”

 

“Then I better not go and see her,” Glóin acquiesced, dropping into one of the comfortable chairs by the fire. “we would only end in another argument.”

 

Óin sat down as well, resting his staff against the wall. “You are still arguing about Gimli, I take it?”

 

“What else could it be about?” Glóin snorted. “I spoke to Dwalin earlier today, to see what could be done. Gimli is young, I will admit, but it would be good if he could enter the service of the royal house, the Prince’s preferably.”

 

“That won’t have gone over well.” Óin observed, the old healer had his own thoughts on the family situation. Having been part of the company that had gone against the dragon had offered their house an increase in status, and while neither he nor his brother had been those to perform the greatest heroics during their journey, they had fought well and not failed their King. As such the future of the family looked well indeed, at least for the moment. During her journey to Erebor Grís had made some unfortunate decisions, especially regarding her son Gimli.

 

“Aye,” Glóin slammed his heavy boot on the stone floor. “he told me that Gimli was far from ready for the trials, that he was too shielded from the dangers during the journey and… that even if he were ready and tested already, he doubted that Gimli would be…” the rest of the words ended in such a growl that rendered them indecipherable.

 

Yet Óin did not need to hear them to guess what had been said, and like so often he felt torn. Gimli was a good lad, and as far as dwarven traditions went, he had been raised in his father’s hall, taught his weapons and lore but had still to grow into them fully yet. Were this the Iron Hills or Moria of old, he would be considered grown beyond his years already, but here in Erebor things were different. Óin shared Grís thoughts about Thorin’s boys, he had watched with the worry of a healer how those two dwarflings changed, how they had been shaped into warriors, into the companions Thorin needed them to be. While Óin understood the necessities well enough, he was a healer and he had felt for them, he had been pained to see their youth, their dwarfling laughter fade away for the earnest faces of two young fighters years before they should have shed their dwarfling skin, and he had been saddened when he had seen the serious, adult expression creeping into their eyes, eyes that had seen things no youth should see. He had encouraged his brother and sister-in-law to ignore those traits, to encourage the friendship with Gimli that might allow the boys some last vestiges of childhood while their dwarfling years burned away in the forge of life. Thus he had indirectly created the problem he was present with now. For where Grís found the young Princes improper and no true dwarves, Óin valued both for the dwarfs they were, for the fighters they had become. And while he was glad that Gimli would not have to grow up like that, that he would be allowed to grow up like a dwarf should in safety and peace, it also meant Gimli had lost the friendship of two other dwarves, a friendship that might never regrow once he reached full adulthood himself.

 

Realising he had been brooding too long, Óin looked at his grumbling brother. “Maybe Dwalin is right, he has never sent someone to his testing who was not ready, no matter how young or old they were.” He pointed out, while he began to dig through his pockets for his pipe.

 

“He has allowed others who were younger to the trials,” Glóin slammed his fist on the side of his armchair. “those two lads that rode with Kíli when our people returned home. Kíli went as far as seconding for the younger one.”

 

“Not another debate on who seconded the trial for whom,” Óin said swiftly, wanting to prevent another debate like the one that had been raging about Kíli’s trial. “Dwalin knows what skills Gimli has. Allow my nephew a few more years under Dwalin’s tutelage and he will be a fine warrior. Meanwhile we can choose an appropriate craft for him as well.”

 

Glóin tilted his head, his brother was a shrewd dwarf and not given to idle dreams. “You are right, Óin,” he agreed, if still grumbly. “and who knows what the future brings, a lost prospect now might pay off later.”

 

Behind the door Grís frowned, her husband was a good dwarf, the best she could wish for, but he was still too influenced by the chaos this mountain was. He did not see that once order was restored, it would be good that Gimli was a proper dwarf. Going back to her rooms, she sat down at her desk and began to pen a long letter to her sister in the Iron Hills.

 

TRB

 

Lachanar retrieved the arrow from the wild thorn bush, half hoping that the movement he had seen inside had just been the wind. The thorny bushes stood only a dozen miles south of Erebor near the path that led to Esgaroth and was supposedly safe. When the warrior parted the thorny branches of the bush, he found his arrow in the throat of black ferret. The elf deftly retrieved the dead animal, putting it on the dry heather close to the bushes to examine. If he had hoped for a rare melanistic fluke of a ferret he was sorely disappointed. The black fur was only the most superficial of the signs, the claws were sharp and the teeth were prolonged… and the face, it was not a face any animal should have.

 

The elf sighed, another one. He had truly hoped that the few cross-trait cases he had found were accidents, but that hope was dwindling. From his pack he retrieved a book and quill, quickly drawing the animal and its most pronounced traits along with making a quick map-notation. For the last three years Lachanar had been tracking the traces of the taint for Thorin, finding spots where dark things gathered, were the taint seemed stronger and reporting them back to the dwarven leader.

 

Thorin was careful, he did not allow settlements too close to such spots, he would have paths and roads built to avoid places that were tainted. Only he knew the full extent of the problem, Lachanar’s reports were to him and him alone. In a way it had been made easier when Elrohir had been called home with his riders, the other elves might have spotted things eventually. It also made Lachanar’s task harder, because as the months passed he began to perceive movements, small shifts in the locations of the taint. It was not exactly spreading, but it moved and keeping ahead of it was not easy for just one tracker. Luckily Thorin was not willing to simply wait and watch, points where the taint came too close to the settlements were swiftly burned by dwarven fire, to cleanse them and the settlements had warning that some nasty things were lurking in the wilds of the former desolace. Thorin may be the only one aware of the full extent of the problem, but he did not risk his people needlessly and saw to it that they were protected.

 

Lachanar took the dead animal discarding the corpse into the murky hole half a mile to the south, where it would not be found or eaten by someone. He studied the tracks around the bushes, had the animal come from Mirkwood or had it been roaming through the desolace for long?

 

“You won’t find a trace.” The elven voice startled Lachanar into drawing his blade as he whipped around; there were few elves that could sneak up on him like that. Rangers and scouts mostly, they had some advantages on warriors. About twenty paces away from him stood another woodland elf, dressed in the green and brown garb of a woodlands hunter, bow in hand.

 

Lachanar lowered his blade. “Legolas, what brings the Prince of Mirkwood so close to Erebor?” he asked, checking their surroundings for other elves but it seemed the Mirkwood Prince was alone.

 

“Tracking a problem, much like you, it would appear.” Legolas put his arrow away and approached Lachanar. “Should I be relieved to see that our neighbours are not blind to the problem, or not surprised that they have you track it?”

 

Lachanar arched an eyebrow. “Both, I suppose.” He was not quite sure what Legolas meant by that, and he was not given to word play. “What kind of problem is it inside the woodlands?”

 

“Would you care?” Legolas coolly studied the scarred warrior opposite of him. “You made it clear where your loyalties lay, four years ago.”

 

“That does not mean I do not wonder how deep into the forest the problem extends, and how much of the problem is bleeding from the forest into the open lands.” Lachanar said. “and as you cared to allow yourself to be seen, I assume you wished to talk to me.”

 

“True,” Legolas turned to walk towards the next height, casting a side-glance at the warrior. “I had not expected to meet you, Lachanar, albeit I wished to speak to you.” Up on the height they could see the dark rim of the woodlands on the western hills. “Dol Guldur fell, the woods are healing… and so is my father. However, as much as the woodlands are recovering, the dark things are slipping away from them. Some wander south and east…”

 

“So we have just evicted the problem and visited it on other lands,” Lachanar observed. “that is bad news.” He had noticed the words on Thranduil, in another time, maybe another life he would have been glad to hear that the King of the Woods was healing, and a small part of him was still glad to know that it was so.

 

“There is worse news,” Legolas pointed towards the woods with his hand. “if those things went south and east, no one has reason to be surprised, not since the Witch King fled the North and conquered Minas Ithil. But – many more of the dark things are not going south, they are headed out into the desolace of Smaug, something in this land is calling out to them.”

 

“The dragon’s blood tainted the grounds of Dale,” Lachanar said, pointing to the heights where the ruins of the city were visible. “it might be enough to lure them here.”

 

“A reasonable explanation,” Legolas agreed lightly. “only… my father does believe the problem to be deeper and much more dangerous.”

 

“Interesting,” Lachanar kept his voice neutral. “will you share his suggestion or is it something you wish not to part with?” He had the distinct suspicion that Legolas was feeling him out for information.

 

“Actually, I had hoped you would share more details,” Legolas turned to directly face the former Captain-General of Mirkwood. “because my father is sure that he felt an echo of the same darkness on you, when you returned from the North more than a century ago. The healers had problems to cleanse it out of that injury in your shoulder and my father says that you carried that darkness with you, like a burden you had forgotten to feel any more.”

 

Lachanar shivered, carefully schooling his hands to not reach for his arms and rub them against the sudden chill. In the dreams he had kept on having these last years he was often racing through a labyrinth of foreign tunnels, hunting for something, seeking someone… fear and pressure on him, to reach… what? He could not tell, and always was there the voice whispering. _‘He must forget, Thorin, forget that he was in danger, forget that he was saved, and forget that he even knows this danger exists.’_

“I was send north to hunt a winged wyrm, the echo cannot be that much different from a dragon,” Lachanar replied, his voice the calm and steady one of a captain, he retreated into that mask, it allowed him to hide his own feelings. Thorin had ordered silence on the matter and Lachanar would not break it. “though I will see that we comb the area again for residual dragon enchantments.”

 

Legolas had watched the change in the other elf, he had gone from just a tracker back to being a closed off warrior within a heartbeat. He knew something, Legolas had spoken to his father and the healers, even to the soldiers who had known Lachanar best, he had carried some change when he had returned from the wyrm-hunt and he had not said all that had been to say about his adventures in the withered heath. And now he still kept his silence on a secret or many secrets he shared, his misguided will to make up for failing a friend compelled him to do so. “There is one last thing, Lachanar,” Legolas said, while he made ready to return home. “my father lets you know that you still can come home… the woods will be open to you, until the day you swear an oath to that dwarf King”

 

Lachanar knew he should have expected something like that, an invitation home, veiled with a hint that he should reconsider his choices. Only that his choices were made already. “Thank you for telling me,” he replied, keeping things polite. “tell your people… to watch the water, it always begins where the waters turn dark.” He did not know where those words came from, or how he knew – but he _knew._ Sweet light, he knew it was true, it had to do with the water, dark waters the first sign… only when and how had he learned of it? And why he had remembered?

 

TRB

 

Dáin Ironfoot was not a humorous person, nor a person to enjoy vanities of any kind, some of his followers would go as far to claim he was not a person at all but an old grouchy stone; but in this moment the old grouchy stone was wishing he could simply shout until he was left alone. He had returned to the palace after a long day of debating the diplomatic implications of the invitation to the coronation at Erebor, to find his wife, his daughter, his nieces, several cousins and assorted female relations occupying two small halls, along with an endless number of seamstresses, shoemakers and other servants. Grísela, his wife, in the midst of it all, looking, critiquing, suggesting and in a whirl of excitement like she was invited to the grand ball at the High Halls of Moria, if such a thing still existed in the world. “No no no…” she fussed over the red hair of one of her younger cousins. “this won’t do… we need to show off your lovely hair and beard… try this…”

 

“Grísela,” Dáin rumbled. “could we talk?”

 

“Of course, dear,” his wife came gliding towards him, with a wide smile. “I had not expected you back so soon, the Council usually takes longer to convene.”

 

“I made short work of it,” Dáin resisted making a face, talking to the council always left him with the feeling of having eaten something sour. “but, Grísela we are only travelling to Erebor for the coronatiom, because there is no way around it. I am of the younger line of Durin and as such… I will have to make my bows to the newly crowned King under the Mountain.” The very thought rankled. “We are not going there to enjoy ourselves.”

 

“Oh you mean… this.” Grísela’s eyes went to the preparations going on around them. “this is not enjoyment, it is _politics_. My sister is luckily writing to me regularly, or I would have no idea what is going on in this mountain. I shall always be glad mother allowed for Grís folly to marry Glóin, for her information alone.”

 

“Politics? What does your sister write?” Dáin could have of course deigned to read Grís various letters, but they were full of female stuff and chatter, things that made him sleepy. He disliked being sleepy.

 

“That the mountain is in total disarray,” Grísela explained while she led him towards their private rooms where they could sit. “Thorin leads that mountain like a warcamp, no forms, just minimal hierarchy and he gives the orders. Did you know he has not cared to re-grow a decent beard yet? And… he is planning to formally announce his Crown Prince…”

 

“Kíli isn’t half a bad lad,” Dáin sat down heavily in the be-cushioned chair of their rooms and frowned. “a tad young to wear the circlet of a Crown Prince, but quite brave from all I hear.”

 

Grísela sat down opposite of him and took his hands. “That is so like you, dear, you look for war, weapons and courage… I on the other hand, looked a bit deeper. Kíli’s mother came from a Northern clan, half black-dwarf if the rumours are true, if it was not even worse…”

 

“Worse?” Dáin tried to follow his wife’s aim, but he did not know where this was going. “Black dwarves are a nasty bunch, but they are strong. It might explain…”

 

“… nothing!” Grísela shook her head. “Some people are already wondering about Kíli, his stature, his love for the bow… but not even I am as ridiculous to suggest that his mother was an elf.” She snorted disdainfully. “But he is a bastard, nevertheless, Thorin never bonded the mother nor did he recognise the child as his until very recently. He left the child to grow up as the son of his former guardsman – meaning Kíli’s position is precarious at best. He may be named now, because Thorin has taken a little leave from his senses and because he has not much to choose from… but that can be changed.”

 

Now Dáin began to get where his wife was going with all her speeches. “You want to marry him to one of our noble ladies?”

 

“Exactly. Once he is married to a proper dwarf lady and has sired an heir, he will see more reason… and grow a kingly beard at the same time. I have called for all my distant relations and on some other houses – we need to be careful though, Thorin is stubbornly adamant on not wanting to see any of the old Erebor noble houses that left them, again. All those who did not join the Exile but came to the Iron Hills are unwelcome at Erebor… which certainly limits my options somewhat. But amongst a good twenty noble dwarf ladies we should find one that will ensnare Thorin Oakenshield.”

 

Dáin felt his head slowly beginning to hurt. “Even if you were successful and Thorin were to marry one of your ladies here… and I still think it is highly doubtful, what makes you think he would name a child he sires with said dwarf woman his heir? He could still insist that Kíli is his firstborn, fate knows I wish our boy was half as capable.”

 

“Dáin! How can you!” Grísela exclaimed, before checking her temper. Her husband did not really mean it, he would be unhappy if he had such an improper Prince in his household. “Kíli and that adopted brother of his Fíli, are of no real consequence. They were born to relationships of the Exile, one parent of each lowly, they will simply have to learn their place. Of course any new wife to Thorin will have to be careful at first – putting on pressure too early won’t do. But eventually, Thorin will see more clearly, once he has shed this horrid chaos he is ruling at the moment.”

 

The Lord of the Iron Hills leaned back in his chair and put a hand against his hurting head. It seemed ironic but right now Dáin Ironfoot wished he could talk sensibly to Thorin before the womenfolk made a mess of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all who asked – I have not stopped writing, but my schedule will be weird until Easter, so there will be gaps and delays.
> 
> This chapter was written mainly in between activities, on the bus and on an icy train station… I usually prefer my desk to write! But I hope you all will have some fun anyway.


	12. King under the Mountain

The chill was slowly creeping into Thorin’s bones, in spite of the fur lined cloak draped over his shoulders. There was a slight draft falling from a shaft somewhere to his left into the grotto and his armor did not help against the cold of the deeps either. Not that he cared much, he ignored the discomfort as he did not pay heed to the hard stones of the uneven rock floor digging into his knees. A night of prayer and vigil was not supposed to be comfortable, neither in body nor in spirit. Tradition demanded that the King-to-be would hold vigil at the tomb of his predecessor or father, contemplating the burden he was to take up upon the morrow. Thorin’s predecessor in title was his grandfather King Thrór, who slept with many of his army by the cold shores of Mirrormere, he had been the last King under the Mountain. Thorin’s father Thrain had vanished the very same day of the battle, never to return. And while Thorin had learned some of his fate in recent years, Thrain’s destiny was more of a warning example than anything and his grave not one he would chose for the vigil of this night. Grateful though Thorin might be to know his father had found a measure of peace in the end, he had fallen far from what any dwarf of Erebor should be.

 

Dís had suggested a vigil at the grave of Thrain I, the very founder of Erebor’s Kingdom, as Thorin was re-founding what had been lost. But it had felt wrong to Thorin, he had not told her that where it came to the choices that Thrain I had made, he felt closer to his own namesake, Thorin I who had foregone the safety of newly founded Erebor to join with his people in the Ered Mithrin. And he had not wanted a meaningless vigil in the royal crypts, he had thought of turning to Balin’s grave, to remember all those who had died before Erebor could be retaken, who had died in needless strife or due to failings in Thorin’s own leadership, or his family’s.

 

In the end Bofur had shown him the answer and led him here – into the very heart of the mountain, to a place so deep that he could feel the very bones of Arda, the deep stone slowly moving in the deeps below. The grotto was not large, a simple semi-circular dome of uneven black stone, lined with fine veins of mithrál that shone softly in the light of the four torches placed along the walls. Eons ago a bubble of hot gas had pressed into the old stone and melted it, forming this grotto in the process. Down here Thorin could almost feel Thrór’s presence, the echo of the great old dwarven King with his love for the deeps and the mines, the dwarf who had loved nothing more than to venture into the deepest reaches with his miners, who had loved the Mountain and his people more than anything – before the curse of the gold robbed him of that.

 

Having experienced the spell of the gold himself, Thorin knew he had not understood in his youth, when he had been impatient with Thrór’s spells of madness and in his heart asked forgiveness for many harsh words that had fallen between them. The allure of the gold, the call it had was nothing easily resisted, and in his heart of hearts Thorin knew he would never be completely free from it, he too carried the taint of his family – the greed, the want, the will to possess. He had learned better since, he had seen the brutal price the greed demanded, and he would fight it for the rest of his life. He bowed his head, alone he’d be lost, he’d fall for the sweet allure again, but he was not alone, Mahal had seen it fit to send him sons – two young dwarves who cared for him, in spite of his flaws and who were his light in the darkness. Two souls truly free of the dark stain that had tainted their family since Durin III had foolishly accepted the First of the Seven.

 

Thorin raised his eyes and his gaze traced the walls and rough uneven ceiling of the cavern, the stone shone in the light with the residue humidity of the deep caverns, each ridge, each crack forming an intricate pattern, twisting, intertwining, broken… like the whole life pattern of his people written into the very stone of their homeland. There were only few mountains such as this, so deep that they linked into the very core of Arda herself, few mountains that any dwarf entering them would feel the _belonging_ settle into his bones, could feel the warmth of the stone, the protective closeness of the deep rocks. Thorin had known that safe, protected feeling all his youth and he keenly remembered the bereavement when they had fled the Mountain. If Dari had been homesick for the snows, Thorin had been homesick for the Stone. And he had seen his people change as the years passed and they were bereft of the embrace of the Stone.

 

Nowhere on the surface could they find the same shelter, nor in most mountains and mines they would find during their wanderings. It had been what had drawn them back to Moria – the song of the Stone. If Erebor was a fortress of the deep stones, Moria was the heart. But they had failed – Moria had fallen into a Shadow too powerful for them to break. When Thorin had led his people out of the ashes of Azanulbizar he had been resigned to see his people wane – bereft of the deeps they would not last, and they would also change. Something was taken from them and one day they would be like the wicked dwarves or the petty dwarves of old – deformed and bereft of their dignity.

 

A small smile curled his lips, when he remembered the evening that had startled him out of his dark thoughts and depression. Two small dwarflings insisting he eat something because he needed to be strong to protect them. Kíli boldly hugging him, ignoring all glares and gruff words, Fíli quietly approaching with him, not quite as bold but all the more caring. That night, sitting against a rock his arms full with two very sleepy small lives he had known he must not give up, he could not allow his people to fall like this. There were thousands who fought on, no matter what, who tried to cope and do right… he had to find them a place that could sustain them.

 

Searching for the lost gates of Belegost had felt like grasping for straws while drowning in a tempest, but it was the only other place of the deeps left. And Cardemir had been their salvation, though the old deeps did not hold the same power they once commanded, breaking Beleriand had taken something from them, they were enough to give his people a respite, a place where the stone was still shelter, where the deeps whispered, if only faintly. It did stave off the bereavement for a time.

 

But only now, that he was kneeling there in the depths of Erebor he felt how much stronger this Mountain was, the deeps were no whisper, but they were a song, the stone was not a frail shield but a true shelter, the echoes of the very rock enveloping them like an armor, or a father’s embrace. He could only wonder how much stronger this shelter must be in the deeps of Moria, the very home of his people. He shook his head, Moria was beyond their reach, sunken into a Night unending and Thorin had no ambitions to reclaim the lost Kingdom of Durin, this was a task for another, strong and brave enough to face the Shadow that had befallen those halls. Thorin’s task lay here, in Erebor, with his people.

 

Heavy steps of armored boots broke the silence of the many hours under the stone, and lights moved along the bridge leading towards the grotto. Thorin straightened his shoulders slightly; it was time. Tradition would have demanded the Royal Guard to be present, but there would not be one under his rule, and luckily Durin the Deathless had not cared for one either. For him it had been his foremost fighters to escort him to the crown hall – with Thorin the choices had been a little more varied.

 

He could put a name to each of the twelve shadowy figures that approached, carrying torches. Some of them, like Kalin and Alric, where amongst the finest soldiers the Mountain had, having spent most of their lives to protect their people in Exile, others, like Bladvila, Ragnor and Vâr had been escorting caravans and traders, their skill and courage proven a thousand times on the dangerous roads of Eriador, some might scorn those ‘servants of traders’ but without them the fledgling prosperity of the Exiles would never have been achieved, Nûrn, Gerad and some others had been with those who settled in Eriador, alternating between their role as protectors of their people and whatever other trade they could practice, miners and fighters, brave souls like so many who had made the survival of their people possible, ready to fight when called and ready to build when allowed to do so in peace, and there was Dwalin – easily the finest fighter alive amongst his people – with Ravin, Idár and Teîa, warriors who had been driven onto the dark and dangerous paths of mercenary work, fighting wars of foreign leaders, for causes they hardly cared for, often scorned as sellswords, often hated for disregarding honor and still supporting their home community with the gold won from the bloody work in the East. They all belonged to this Mountain, they were all Children of Erebor, and Thorin wanted his people to understand that Erebor had room for all of them, no matter how long the road into Exile had been.

 

The twelve had reached the entrance of the grotto, forming a crescent at the entrance. Each of them carrying a torch in the left hand and a sharp blade in the right one. “Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thrór,” It had been Alric who spoke, his voice a tad lighter than that of most dwarves.

 

Thorin rose from his knees and turned to face them. “Why are you calling upon me in the silence?” he asked the formal question, but… it was not formal any more. Here, in this moment it was alive, he could feel it.

 

“Your people are calling for you.” Nûrn answered, his voice rough but firm. “and there is no silence to bar their call.”

 

The words sent a shiver down Thorin’s spine, when he had read about the rite he had found it appropriate, but he had never imagined what these words would feel like. They were a demand, a call that had to be heeded. “For what reason do they call for me?” he asked.

 

“You are summoned before the Heart of Erebor,” Bladvila answered this time, his voice all steel and strength. “ask not why you were called – it is for you to answer your people’s call, not to ask.”

 

The words were the same that were used for a prisoner brought to receive judgment, and never before Thorin had realized how heavy they felt. This too was judgment the judgment on whether or not his people found him worthy. He stepped forward, not answering but following in the direction he was pointed.

 

“Mahal guide, shelter and preserve you.” Dwalin’s deep, rumbling voice bestowing the final blessing sent a surge of warmth through Thorin. Their ranks parted for him and they began the march up to the Mountain in silence.

 

TRB

 

Grísela had to admit that the halls of the Iron Hills could not compare with the splendor of Erebor, not just the city itself was much grander than the dwarven city of the Iron Hills but the main halls and throne hall were beyond compare. Those who had carved these halls had still remembered lost Moria and had created a Kingdom of marvelous beauty. A part of her wished she could leave herself to enjoy the sight of the Throne Hall alight with a thousand crystal lamps. Unfortunately that was not an option; she had to keep her eyes open and her mind sharp.

 

The guests were standing on a series of elevated dais’ on the left side of the hall, while the main hall and all galleries were full of Erebor dwarves. She knew she should not be surprised to see so many of the Mountain’s people present here, even at Thrór’s coronation half the whole Mountain had watched. It made for a good showing she supposed. Still… half the populace in this case was not just proper dwarves, or those dwarven wilders that composed Thorin’s following these days, but to her grand shock she had seen a whole lot that did not belong here. Firstly there was the Reach – the Lord of the Reach and a great number of their warriors, their blond hair standing out in the crowd like a swan among crows. Thorin might have had to invite them, Grísela rationalized, he needed their warriors and they were dwarves after all, strange dwarves but dwarves all the same and after Thorin had allowed his own sister to marry one of their number he could hardly not have them here. But that was where good taste truly ended.

 

Grísela’s eyes went to the next group of followers on the central hall. Standing taller than any dwarf, the menfolk were hard to overlook. Led by their ‘Lord’, who was none other than Bard, formerly Captain of the City Guard of Esgaroth, there was a number of Men present, some were warriors, some must hold other professions and they had also brought their women along! “Even if they are the ones to rebuild Dale,” Grísela whispered to her sister, standing close to her. “do they need to be here? Thrór certainly did not invite Girion of Dale to dwarven occasions.”

 

Grís wrinkled her nose. “They are part of the Mountain now; you will see their Lord swear to Thorin before the night is out. Thorin invited them to join the Kingdom of Erebor.”

 

Grísela tried not to make a face, Thorin had clearly been wandering about for too long if he thought it necessary to add menfolk to a Dwarven Kingdom. She sighed, this would be a tough task to sort out but it could be done, the dwarven lady that could not mold her husband into form had not yet been born. Her eyes went on, surveying those she would have to see as Thorin’s ‘court’ for the time being. “The small fellow, fifth to the right, in the place of the Loreseeker – who is he?” she whispered to Grís.

 

“Bilbo Baggins, a Halfing… and one of the heroes who followed Thorin to conquer the Mountain. He saved the King’s life at least once.” Grís informed her.

 

Good Mahal, what had Thorin gotten himself into! Grísela supposed it could not be helped, Thorin’s choice in companions on his foolish quest had been limited to those who would sign up for a forlorn hope. “It takes all kinds to make the world.” She whispered between gritted teeth, though she was firmly convinced that the world could do well without some kinds. And what in the world had compelled Thorin to invite _Elves,_ of all things to the coronation?

 

Which brought her attention to the three Guardians of the Crown, standing at the stairs of the Throne, a coronation according to Durin’s Tradition was something rare and she too had spent hours in the library to read up on it. The last time it had been put into practice had been when Thorin I had been crowned and it was an odd choice of ritual. She studied the three thoughtfully. The Master of the Anvil – Master of all Crafters – was none other than Narvi, a wise and solid choice. Narvi had been a famous spellsmith before the Mountain fell, and while he had been blinded by the dragon’s fire, he had survived and even grown in his art. Tall for a dwarf, with white hair and beard he looked all that a Guardian should be.

 

Beside him stood the Mistress of the Chest – Head of the Traders – Brea daughter of Briga. Grísela wrinkled her nose, the girl was admittedly good at what she did, if the rebuilding trade from the Mountain was any indication and she had no compunction to trade with the strangest people, but… she was too young for the task, not to mention she never named her father. Briga… if Grísela’s research had been right, she had been a warrior’s daughter one of the many escapees from the Mountain, a shieldwife falling beside a warrior in Azanulbizar. Why Brea would not use her father’s name, or why she had no right to do so no research had revealed. But she was unsuitable, no matter her other skills.

 

Her eyes fell on the Master of the Pit, Bofur son of Brón, a Blacklock dwarf if she ever saw one, and another of the twelve brave that had followed Thorin into the dragon’s lair. She could not say much there, the very nature of the position meant it would be held by a lowborn dwarf nine times out of ten. Before she could continue to study the other guests and crane her neck to take a look at the ‘Princes’ her husband roughly nudged her into the side: the doors of the Hall were swinging open.

 

TRB

 

When the high doors of the throne hall swung open before them and the bright light of a thousand lanterns flooded out to them, Thorin could not deny that his heart was racing, he had to exercise all his calm not to show any nerves. The guard that had been marching in double column behind him so far fanned out again into the crescent behind him, the outer edge of the crescent two steps ahead of him, the others following by one and a half step distance, with Idár closing the circle behind him. Ahead Thorin saw the huge hall, packed with people as were the galleries above. Some of them were guests but many more were the people of the Mountain. Ahead of them at the far side of the hall, three figures awaited at the base of the stairs of the Throne of the Mountain: Narvi, the Master of the Anvil, a symbol for those who had survived the dragon’s wrath, the Exile and had come home eventually, Brea, Mistress of the Chest, symbol for all those born into the dark Exile, and Bofur, Master of the Pit, symbol for all those who still had the courage to follow Thorin, who had kept faith even when things had become hopeless.

 

“Guardsmen – whom do you bring to the Heart of the Mountain?” Narvi asked, his old voice still powerful, carrying through the hall clearly.  

 

“Thorin, Son of Thrain, Son of Thrór, whom was summoned here.” Dwalin answered, his deeper voice just as strong.

 

“By whose authority was he summoned here?” Brea asked, sounding as stern as her role demanded.

 

“The people of Erebor have summoned Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór before the Heart of the Mountain, and such we bring him here.” Alric’s response too was spoken with some more force.

 

“For what reason was he summoned before the Heart of the Mountain?” Came Bofur’s familiar voice with the lilting accent which made Thorin nearly smile, it was good to know he was there.

 

“To claim the Obsidian Throne and be crowned King under the Mountain,” Bladvila’s bronze voice rang out like a clarion under the vaulted ceiling. “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór comes before the Heart of the Mountain, as he was summoned by his people, to be their King.”

 

They were halfway through the hall by now and the guards had all passed off their torches to some of those waiting by the side. “He may step forward and stand before the Heart of the Mountain.” All three Guardians had spoken in unison this time.

 

Thorin kept walking at the same pace until he reached the dark space before the stairs, where the polished black floor tiles were lined with the golden emblem of his family. He stopped, exactly five paces from the three awaiting them. The guard moved, six to his left, six to the right.

 

Silence fell for a moment, before Narvi spoke again. “Guardsmen – who of you swears that this is indeed truly Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór and none other?” It seemed oddly fitting that it was the blinded crafter that would ask the formal question.

 

Idár, Nûrn, Gerad and Ragnor stepped forward, moving like one man, bowing to the three Guardians. “I so swear,” their words came in unison, no hesitation, no wavering in their voices.

 

“And so I do hear, you will be held to your words in times to come.” Narvi responded pointing them to stand to the sides.

 

“Guardsmen – who of you pledges that Thorin is the one chosen by his people, proven through blood, conquest and loyalty?” Brea’s voice held a slight tremor as she asked the next question.

 

Dwalin, Bladvila, Alric and Vár stepped forward, kneeling as they placed the weapons on the ground. “I so pledge,” their voices were in unison and firm.

 

The significance of this moment touched Thorin’s very soul, if he were proven wrong, his claim false, these four would be put to death with him, and while he knew there was no doubt to his claim, none other to contest it… it still took courage to pledge this.

 

“Your pledge has been heard and you will be held to it from now to the day our race ends,” Brea announced.

 

“We call upon you to bear witness as the Crown of Durin’s folk passes to the next King,” Bofur addressed the other four, who too stepped aside, leaving Thorin to stand alone before the three.

 

“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thrór, step forward,” Narvi spoke again, his voice just a touch softer than before. “the Heart of Erebor has spoken and her people have called upon you to be their King and ascend to the Obsidian Throne. What is your answer?”

 

The full weight of the question settled upon Thorin like a weight of lead, this moment had come not through his choice or wish, nor through any claim his bloodline may hold. It came through his people. They could have gone any other way, they had not been forced to follow him, and more than a few had chosen easier paths than tying themselves to Durin’s House. But not these – they had _chosen_ to follow him, _chosen_ him to be their leader and followed him through Exile and Darkness. Now they had called for him and it was for him to answer, to show whether or not they had been right, they entrusted their fates to him. It was a humbling and exhilarating thought, but it felt _right._ These were his people, not because they had been born as such, but because they had chosen to be, they belonged to him as much as he belonged to them.

 

He stepped forward, kneeling before the three Guardians. “I have heard the call of my people and I shall answer,” he said, his deep voice clear for all to hear. “they have summoned me and I am honored to heed their call. They have chosen me and I shall embrace their choice.”

 

 “The choice was made, it was made well,” Bofur’s voice echoed awe and warmth as he spoke the formal words. “it was witnessed by the deeps below and the skies above, may it be remembered until the world ends.”

 

As Bofur spoke Brea raised the crown up above her head for all to see – a polished star-steel circlet, adorned only with the finest splinters of diamonds, glittering in the light like fine stars strewn on the steely silver of the intricate crown. She passed the crown to Bofur, who was the one to place it on Thorin’s brow. “The burden has passed on to you, may you bear it well,” he said softly, only for Thorin to hear.

 

Thorin rose at Brea’s gesture and turned around to face his people.

 

“You have ascended to the Obsidian Throne, so the Line of the Deathless and Durin’s folk may endure,” the Guardians announced in unison. “Thorin Oakenshield, Guardian of Deeps, Protector of the seven nations, King under the Mountain!”

 

A great cheer rose in the hall, as thousands of voices rose in jubilation, they echoed from the great ceiling and out of the hall itself and it took a long time for the cheering to die down.

 

TRB

 

Grísela had a hard time to not frown; she would get headaches when she went on frowning so much. Thorin… he truly had been a shock. How could he think that such a short beard was dignified, or worthy of a King? Not to mention that mane of hair! She had expected that there was a lot of room for improvement in him, but not that improvement was all one might think about. She had stood still, mien impassive throughout the ceremony, and the long cheering had tired her patience. But now the ceremonies were proceeding again.

 

She watched the presentation of Thorin’s Crown Prince with greatest interest – Grís had been right, the Prince was young, but Grísela doubted the claim that he was only 80. The young warrior Prince Thorin presented to his people had to be at least one hundred, she was sure of it. That kind of gravity and expression was not attained by youthful dwarves, even in one just turned adult it would be rare. If he only had the sense to grow a proper beard, he would look every inch a Prince. While she watched Kíli, Grísela found she needed to modify her plans, this son of Thorin’s seed was a warrior – maybe a warrior first and foremost even. If he could be swayed to see things more favorably, maybe even understood why his father needed to marry and sire a proper heir, he could maybe still be useful to protect a future Prince or be trained to become a War-Master against the day Dwalin died. That was a thought worthy of consideration.

 

The ceremony of the Oaths at least went smoothly and without too many liberties against protocol and tradition. Grísela relaxed slightly. Once the more sociable part of the festivities began, the true work would begin.

 

TRB

 

Not even treasures could lift the mood of dwarves like food and wine, Kíli thought, watching the feast unfold. He was glad the ceremonies were over, while he knew that they were necessary he had hated seeing Fíli kneel and swear loyalty, establishing the hierarchy of succession. Fíli was his brother, he should not have been made do this. Kíli had argued against it, and it had been Fíli who had talked him around eventually. Still, he did not have to like it.

 

“You seem lost in thought, Prince Kíli,” a female voice interrupted his thoughts; he turned to see who had spoken to him. A dwarf Lady with ruddy hair swinging in long, be-jeweled braids stood only two steps away. She had to be one of Lady Grísela’s entourage.

 

“Not really,” Kíli replied evenly, his eyes checking the crowd. “I do not think we have been introduced.” He wondered to whom he could palm her off to – maybe Elrohir and some of the Elves? No, that was only a disaster waiting to happen.

 

“Sif, daughter of Sarin,” The Dwarf Lady supplied her name smoothly. “I was looking for Lady Grísela but she seems very preoccupied in reacquainting your esteemed father to all the noble houses…”

 

Kíli cast a glance across the hall to see a whole swarm of Ladies being introduced to Thorin, each of them was adorned, clad and be-scented to a point that left little doubt of their purpose. Kíli smiled to himself, time to play fox in the henhouse. “Allow me to escort you back to your Lady, she will be thoroughly missing your company,” he said with the smoothest politeness he was able to, taking her arm.

 

“I am sure she would not mind…” Sif began but Kíli had already begun to walk towards the assembly of Ladies.

 

“I believe I saw Lady Grísela look for you only recently,” he said, untruthfully but earnestly. “and she should not be left waiting.”

 

They reached the whole gaggle of females and Kíli interrupted the conversation of Gríslea and Thorin with a very shallow bow. “Lady Grísela, one of your Ladies… Lady Sif, I believe, got lost in the halls,” Kíli smiled sweetly at her. “I apologize that she had to feel so lost – we sometimes tend to forget that Erebor is so huge, compared to the Iron City.”

 

He saw Grísela’s mien freeze up, and caught the amused sparkle in Thorin’s eyes. “Kíli, I am glad you found our lost Lady, it would have been such a disappointment to Princes Dís to not meet all of Lady Grísela’s entourage. The good Lady just promised to provide Dís with some female company she had to miss for so long.”

 

Dís had approached them, the difference between her and the rather tawdry Ladies from the Iron Hills was stunning. Dís had chosen a deep blue grown, the color of her House, and only sparingly used jewelry, but the few pieces she wore were all exquisite in make and material. “Grísela,” she smiled at Dáin’s Lady wife. “I have so wished to talk to you – let us Ladies retire to the upper halls, where we can hold court without any men.”

 

Kíli could see that Grísela did not want to comply, but she was in a bind. Dís was a Princess of the Mountain and Grísela was the Wife of a Dwarf Lord, the hierarchy was clear. She had to gather up her whole henhouse and follow the Princess.

 

“And here I thought we could hand-feed them to Dwalin and the warriors,” Kíli observed, when the whole swarm was out of earshot.

 

Thorin actually smirked at him. “If any try to come back and haunt us again, feel free to palm them off to the most impossible matches you can find – but leave poor Dwalin alone, he has his hands full keeping Narvi occupied.”

 

“Narvi, why?” Kíli looked over the groups clustered in the hall and found Dwalin and Narvi sharing a huge jug of wine, laughing and reliving the good old times. Narvi looked a bit unusual, until Kíli noticed why – Narvi’s constant company and aid, Fjalaris was nowhere near her grandfather, which was truly unusual. He swiftly looked around to find her and Fíli standing close to one of the balconies, laughing softly together. “I think I will join Dwalin and Narvi for a while,” Kíli said to Thorin, catching the smile in Thorin’s eyes. The King was happy to see Fíli and Fjalaris, it would be good if Narvi did not miss her any time soon.

 

TRB

 

The festivities had gone far into the night, with no place in the Mountain not celebrating. The first rays of light found Thorin standing on one of the High Battlements of the Mountain. He had wanted to be alone for a moment and walked up to the very spot that he had stood in when Smaug attacked so many years ago. The sun was rising in the east, a glowing ball of fire, parting the chill mists of the winter morning, her rays reflecting in the ice of the peak above. Thorin’s heart soared like an eagle would rise into the new light, he knew that troubles lay ahead of them, but right here and now he felt neither fears nor doubts, they would weather whatever storms came their way.

 

Soft voices interrupted his thoughts and he turned around to see Fíli and Fjalaris standing under the columns of the hallway leading inside. It seemed the dark-haired girl tried to keep Fíli from actually approaching Thorin. The King smiled, he had a very good guess what this was about, and he approved. With them the Mountain would have a future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> To all who asked – I have not stopped writing, but my schedule will be weird until Easter, so there will be gaps and delays.
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	13. The voice that calls you

Spring 2961 TA

 

Bilbo feverently hoped the situation would have calmed down, when he guided his pony through the Southern Gate of the Mountain. Not that he regretted having ridden out at all – dragging Kíli from the Mountain had been a good idea, even if the Wilderlanders the patrols had spotted had been pathetic at best. Most of them had run, once discovered. But that was not the point – they had served to distract Kíli for a few hours and that had been the entire objective of mission. Bilbo stifled a smile as he dismounted his pony. Fifteen years ago, when Fjalaris had given birth to her first child he had learned that fretting was something the House of Durin had developed into an art.

 

It had been understandable that Fíli had been nervous and excited, Fjalairs was his wife after all and he had been soon to be a father, but he had actually been the most reasonable of the entire clan, excepting Dís. Thorin and Kíli had been nervous, brooding, fretting and entirely useless. Back then Bilbo had had troubles to understand them, it was not like it was the end of the world. Hobbit Lasses did that all the time, and with remarkable ease. If a Hobbit husband began to fret each time a child was born, he’d be busy a lot. But Fifteen years ago, as the night wore on, and a new day came, Bilbo had done his best to comfort his friends. Gently reminding them that it would fine, Fjalaris children were born inside the shelter of Erebor, with no danger of enemies or raiders to harm her. Still… it had been long, and when a new night fell, Bilbo too had begun to worry. Fjalaris twins had been born around midnight, as the dark hours passed into Midwinter’s Day. Ever since the dwarves would claim that Anvari, the eldest of the twins, had been born before Midnight, having gained his dark hair from that hour and Asutri, the younger twin had been born past Midnight and had gained his blond hair from the Midwinter sun. Bilbo shook his head, it was so like dwarves to find a poetic explanation for the perfectly obvious.

 

At least he had been warned this time – he had known what to expect when Fjalaris and Dís took their leave to go to the deep rock, where the child was to be born. Having three nervous dwarfes, one the hustband and two fretting friends around was bad enough but the fifteen year old dwarfling twins on top of that had been a bit much and Bilbo had conspired with Dwalin to find some excuse to get Kíli out of the Mountain for some hours. He looked to his friend, who just handed the reins of his horse to one of the servants. “Dwalin is not here, that’s a good sign.” Bilbo observed.

 

Kíli closed his eyes, like he was listening to something inaudible to others. “Fíli is excited… happy and excited. I think you might be right Bilbo.” He strode up the stairs that led out of the gauntlet, taking two steps at once.

 

Bilbo grinned and hurried after him, there were few people towards whom Kíli would be so open about the bond he shared with his brother, and in moments like this he realized how close he was to Kíli and his entire family. They crossed the city, it was fairly quiet – as far as any dwarven city could be quiet. “No celebrations yet,” he said as he noticed the many dwarves sitting outside of inns, talking quietly. “so there hasn’t been any announcement yet.” When the twins had been born the party had lasted several days and most of the Mountain had been thoroughly drunk, the arrival of the two little Princes had been celebrated loudly and raucously. With Kíli not showing any inclination to notice the Ladies swooning after him, they were the only children to the Royal Family.

 

They reached the Hall of Candles and soon enough arrived at the Palace. There was a hustle and bustle of servants and helpers rushing here and there, that had Bilbo worried for one moment. If so much fuss was made… no, he’d not think dark thoughts until absolutely necessary. Mercy forbid, that he’d start brooding like his friends already did. When they entered the huge hall that was the entrance to the Royal Quarters, Bilbo noticed that he did not see Fíli anywhere, only Thorin sat in a chair close to the fire.

 

“Kíli!” A small, darkhaired figure got up from the rug before the fire and rushed towards the warrior. Aged 15 Anvari was a small dwarfling still, a child by the standards of Men or Hobbits. Kíli squatted down to scoop the small figure up in his arms, Anvari hugging his Uncle tightly.

 

Bilbo smiled. Of the twins Anvari was the calmer child, quiet, serious and almost shy, with the deep black hair of his mother and the fierce blue eyes of Durin’s House. He was the total opposite to Asutri, his lively, wild and exuberant brother. To everyone’s surprise shy Anvari had taken to his Uncle Kíli more than to any other relation or friend of the family, and now that Bilbo saw the small figure snuggle up against Kíli’s chest, leaning the dark head against the broad armored shoulder of his Uncle, it was easy to suppose that Anvari felt safe and protected with Kíli.

 

“Asturi is upset,” the small dwarfling whispered softly, “he will be scolded if he keeps being upset.”

 

Kíli gently patted the dark head that snuggled against his shoulder, as he looked around the room for Asturi, finding the blond dwarfling sitting on Thorin’s knee. Asturi sat upright, facing his kingly grandfather and clearly he was explaining something, for he had his two tiny hands raised in an expressive gesture. “But we _explained_ it to, Momma,” Asturi insisted determined. “We both _in… insisted_ that we wanted a brother. But healer Óin said she got a sister for us –  why can’t we sent the sister away again?”

 

Having to stifle a laugh, Kíli’s ruffled Anvari’s hair, “No, he won’t be scolded for being upset,” he comforted the smaller boy. “Uncle Thorin will explain to him that a sister is a wonderful thing to have.”

 

“Are you sure?” Anvari looked up a little, wrinkling his nose critically. “I mean… she is a _girl_ and what if she always sits on front of the mirror and does weird things? Glóin’s wife was a girl and she always….”

 

“But she will be our girl, and our girls don’t do such weird things,” Kíli said, his eyes sparkling with laughter. “tell you what – you will go with me to see your mother and sister, and you will give your sister her welcoming gift and tell your mother that you are happy to have a sister – and I take you for a ride on Snowblaze tomorrow.”

 

Bilbo had a hard time to not roll his eyes, it was so like Kíli to bribe Anvari with rides on his battlesteed. Anvari wouldn’t go near a pony alone, but he was entirely unafraid of Kíli’s warhorse. “Don’t look so upset, Bilbo,” Thorin rumbled, evidently in a good mood. “the boys will learn to be happy to have a sister soon enough.”

 

“So it is true – it is a girl this time?” Bilbo asked, happy for his friends. Daughters were treasured amongst dwarves, because girl births were so rare.

 

“Aye, she was born an hour ago, and the way Óin is stuffing his eartrumpet tells me that she has the family’s commanding voice.” Thorin told him, before his attention went back to the dwarfling contemplating having a sister, sitting on his knee.

 

“We will have a big naming ceremony this time,” Kíli laughed, he had sat down, with Anvari still curled up against him. “it’s a good reason to celebrate.”

 

Now Bilbo laughed too. Boys were warriors, par of the course but girls were jewels, treasures and dwarves loved to brag about their treasures. The Mountain would not be sober for an entire week, he was sure of it.

 

TRB

 

Four days later Kíli entered the King’s study, unsurprised to hear his brother and Thorin discuss already inside, their voices clearly audible beyond slightly ajar door. He should have guessed – birth of a Princess or no, they had been expecting several delegations, one from the Iron Hills, one from Esgaroth and one of the Elves, most likely from Rivendell as Thranduil had recovered enough good sense to ask his brethren for aid whenever he had to talk to Erebor. Kíli had forgotten about the upcoming talks that were supposed to take care of the tensions and troubles that had erupted around Esgaroth these passing years. The situation was complex; or rather he’d call it a mess. Esgaroth had lost a lot of its former trade when Erebor was restored, most merchants preferring to trade at Erebor, passing by Lake Town, with Esgaroth still being close to the Mirkwood Elves and trading with them, and some of the Iron Hills trade still going there, tensions had risen when the Master of Lake Town had imposed a new tax on all goods traded to and from Erebor. Thorin in turn had simply barred Lake Town from all trade, by imposing a ban on any trade with the city. Kíli rubbed his forehead, such disputes gave him headaches.

 

“He is going to bring it up either way, Thorin,” he heard Fíli speak as he entered the room. His brother stood with the back to the fireplace, eyes focused on Thorin. “It has been a point of contention ever since we refounded Erebor. It used to be their home too and Dain… I think he would prefer if they left.”

 

Thorin shrugged. “He was so eager to get them back then,” the King grumbled. “and I will not change my mind, Fíli.”

 

Walking in and grabbing a chair, Kíli stat down stretching his legs. “This can’t be about the trade disputes,” he observed. “is it again about Dáin wanting to retour some of the noble houses to us? Or about the latest marriage case that must be sitting on your desk still, Thorin?”

 

“Both,” Thorin’s eyes indicated a scroll sitting atop a stack. “I will not forbid the marriage entirely, but if any girl from Erebor is stupid enough to marry such a ‘Noble Dwarf’ she better move with him to the Iron City, because I will not have her husband – or her offspring – in Erebor. And I’d advise her to think twice, that House is known to be faithless.”

 

Kíli cast a confused glance at his brother. “This sounds a bit… more personal?” he asked.

 

“I can tell you what this is about,” Thorin sat down finally, forcing his powerful frame into stillness as opposed to angrily pacing through the room. “when they Mountain fell and we were forced to flee, a number of noble Houses remembered their blood ties to the Iron Hills. And they chose to move their families there – in spite of their duties to our people, to the oaths they had sworn.” Kíli saw a grim, angry expression rise in Thorin’s eyes, it was one he knew well, though it had become more rare in recent years. “Like your guard?” he asked. “You once said that only Dwalin and Dari remained faithful…”

 

“Exactly,” Thorin said. “the case here –“ again he indicated the scroll that had caused so much offense. “is the son of one of them wanting to marry into Erebor.” He took a deep breath. “When we truly succeeded in returning to Erebor I decided to not take them back. They forsook us in our darkest hours; they ran and hid in comfort in the Iron Hills, so there is no place for them here now that the Mountain is restored. I would not have them look down on those who fought and bled to keep our people alive during the Exile.”

 

“The son did not ask for his father’s treachery,” Fíli said softly. “and he has courage to even try, knowing he will be seen as the son of an Oathbreaker here.” Being an Oathbreaker was one of the worst stigmas among dwarves, even murderer was less vile. A man might commit a murder for a perfectly good reason, but breaking an oath was something only the vilest, worst creatures did.

 

“And he will bring strife and unrest to our people,” Kíli pointed out in turn. “because in arguing the case, a lot of anger will be vented. Maybe one of us should speak to the girl and lay it all out for her – and what the consequences will be for her and her children, if she marries such a dwarf.”

 

Thorin looked at both of them and stifled a smile that threatened to break through his dark mood. The advice of his two sons was always like this - diametric opposites in their suggestions, and both with good insights. “The son may not be to fault for his father’s choices, but he did not oppose him either as he came of age,” Thorin finally announced his decisions. “he was not among those who joined us in the Ered Luin when he was old enough. Thus he condoned his father’s decisions.”

 

“Do you want me to have a talk with the lady in question?” Kíli asked. “She should have the chance to make an informed decision.”

 

“I will ask Fíli to take that role – he is a married dwarf and as such there will not be any untoward rumours if what he says breaks up her engagement.” Thorin said. “I have another matter for the moment, though.”

 

Kíli looked up. “What happened? Did Dáin bring news of another Iron Wyrm plaguing him? I’ll gladly grab Bilbo, Ánar and Hlevar for a little hunt.”

 

Thorin shook his head, sometimes he marveled at the temperaments of both Princes – Kíli, always the fighter, always ready to go off and defend his people, or whatever neighbors might be in trouble and Fíli, who had the keen eyes and patient mindset to see the myriad of issues that sprung from a large and diverse community like Erebor was. Together they were a formidable support for Thorin, the ideal Princes, working together seamlessly. “No, but who knows what will await you at the end of this…”

 

Thorin took a small, folded piece of parchment off the stack. “Elrohir brought this with him.”

 

“Elrohir? So they still sent him to deal with the Elven issues?” Kíli asked. “At least Thranduil has the sense to not come in person.” He disliked that a friend would be arguing Thranduil’s case, which meant they’d have to actually listen to what he said.

 

“This has nothing to do with the Woodland Elves,” Thorin informed him. “it is from Gilraen.”

 

Now Kíli’s curiosity was awoken. “I recall the letter she gave me for you, years ago, you never said what it was about.”

 

“It was nothing – I saved her and her sister once from an Orc attack in Wildfane Heights,” Thorin said nonchalantly. “She felt she had never thanked me and took the chance, unnecessary as it was. This letter though – is for you. Elrohir observed common politeness to give it to the head of your clan, which means he fears some political involvement might come of it.” He handed Kíli the neatly folded parchment.

 

Breaking the thin seal on it, Kíli unfolded the parchment quickly, finding it covered in a neat, if somewhat flourished handwriting.

 

_Gilraen, daughter of Dirhaél, relic of Arathron, to Prince Kíli, son Thorin, son of…_

 

Kíli skipped the polite introductory lines that held nothing but titles, politesses and apologies for even approaching him with this letter, he hated all that written subservience with a passion, and went straight to the where the true letter began.

 

_It is with great sadness and worry that I pen these lines to you, I would not dare to even bother you with them, had you not befriended my son long ago and were you not the last person I could turn to. Six years ago my son Aragorn, whom you knew under the name of Estel, met Gandalf the Grey and agreed to assist him on a number of tasks. His decision was not greeted favorably by his erstwhile mentor, Prince Elrohir, who felt Aragorn should focus on the state of Eriador and former Arnor, which certainly has deteriorated in the last two decades since the departure of your people._

Kíli frowned, reading this. Gandalf was a great wizard and mentor but his errands tended to be somewhat dangerous if not slightly crazy at times, if the quest for Erebor was any indication. He shook his head and read on.

 

_During his last errand which led my son to the ruins of Framsburg, Aragorn encountered a mysterious stranger calling himself Trakhaine…_

 

“I knew we’d hear from this Easterling bastard again, sooner or later,” Kíli grumbled. “at least he seems to have forgotten his army for the time being.”

 

_Trakhaine, who claimed to have knowledge of the fate of my husband Arathorn. Of course my son knew, as I told him, that his father perished fighting the Orcs in the battle of the Snows. Yet Trakhaine possessed an item that clearly belonged to my husband and he claimed that my words to my son were a lie. Upon Aragorn’s questions I had to admit that while I know in my heart that my husband perished, his body was never found. My son was angry at such a revelation, and more prone to believe Trakhaine’s claim that there is a secret place under the Misty Mountains where an Orc leader keeps a great number of captives, for work, claiming my husband be among them._

_In spite of my insistence and pleading Aragorn left to find his father, in a place called the Deeps of Azhghanar, and I fear for him. My heart felt Arathorn’s departure from this world, we had known our time to be very short and thus this Trakhaine’s claim is either honestly wrong or a trap for my son. Gandalf told me that he cannot help me in any way, Aragorn did not listen to him either, nor does he know where such a place like the Deeps of Azhghanar might be found. Lord Elrond told me the same, he cannot help my son, but he believes to having seen the name of Azhghanar on an ancient map the elves drew of the Southern Misty Mountains._

_It is said that your House knows more of these Mountains than all Elves and Rangers combined, Prince Kíli and you are truly my last hope. I have no right to beg your help, nor can I offer any reward beyond a mother’s gratitude but if cannot help I fear my son will never return…_

Kíli put the letter down, his frown having deepened to his eyebrows forming a steep V on his forehead. “If Azhghanar is supposed to mean Az-Ganhar, then it should be on the maps of Moria,” he said to himself.

 

Thorin and Fíli had patiently waited for him to finish the letter, but now Thorin’s patience was just a little strained. “Thrakhaine and Moria… Kíli what exactly happened?”

 

It took Kíli less than a minute to sum up the letter’s contents. “And if it is the Deeps of Az-Ganhar she means then Estel is traipsing around somewhere beyond the seventh deep of Moria.”

 

“If his mother sent the letter the moment he left...” Fíli had pushed away from the wall and walked towards the table. “Elrohir rode fast and on an elven horse… depending on how long it takes Estel to reach the gates, he may not yet even be inside Khazad-dûm. But he will need help either way. But why would Gilraen turn to you, if she knew Thorin as well?”

 

“Because had she turned to Thorin, it would have been a formal plea for help to a foreign King… which carries its own obligations and implications.” Kíli replied. “Asking me kept it private, only that Elrohir saw it fit to deposit the letter with Thorin, most likely because he felt the matter was politically entangled…” Kíli slammed his hand on the table. “I hate Shadow-plays and elven politics.”

 

Thorin chuckled. “Who doesn’t? And had Gilraen turned to me, my answer would be the same as it is now – I will send you, Kíli, to assist her son.”

 

“No!” Fíli turned towards Thorin, the protective older brother snapping into the foreground. “Kíli is needed here, especially with the talks beginning…”

 

“Where he will stand at my side with such a bored expression that Dáin will feel mocked,” Thorin finished the sentence. “you cannot go, Fíli, you are a husband and a father. I need you here to help me sort these talks involving Esgaroth and Thranduil, you have the patience for them I lack.” Thorin cast a meaningful glance at the blond dwarf.

 

“And it will need one of us,” Kíli said, rising from the chair. “there are passages and doors in Moria that will open to none other than our bloodline.”

 

Thorin hesitated only for a moment; he knew he was sending Kíli into danger, into the deeps haunted by Durin’s Bane. Yet, whom else could he sent? “Go to the library and ask Bilbo for one of the engraven cubes, they are no complete maps of Moria but the best we have.” He said, knowing that each of three existing copies of the inscribed stones would reveal at they held for Kíli. “If you enter Moria and find you can risk it – search in third depth the twenty-first hallway and find the Hall of Ancient Records. They may still hold maps more precise than any we have and all I could teach you.” Much of the memory of Moria had been passed along the royal line, from father to son, secrets, passwords for long forgotten doors, knowledge of places and maps. Thorin had passed on all he knew to his boys, not believing they’d ever need it, but still believing in not forgetting the secrets of old.

 

TRB

 

The library was fairly quiet when Kíli arrived, finding Bilbo discussing a translation of the _Lay of Terglarond_ with two of the other scholars. Seeing him the Hobbit swiftly extricated himself from the discussion and walked up to him. “Kíli, what brings you into the halls of books?” he asked. “Did Dwalin spot another band or raiders? Or a wyrm again?”

 

“Neither nor,” Kíli replied with a wink. “I am here for one of the engraven cubes. Don’t look so shocked, even I read, now and then.”

 

Bilbo snorted. “If it is a book on crafting or arcane smithing you have an astonishing patience to read, Kíli,” he observed, leading him up a stairwell towards the Hall of Córin. “But the engraven cubes… to be quite fair, they are beyond me. I know Thorin says they are maps of a sort, but I’d still believe them paperweights.”

 

They had reached the part of the library dedicated to maps and cartography. Bilbo went to a small stone box and opened it. The box held three cubes of dark stone, engraved all over with silvery lines. They looked beautiful, if exotic but nothing more. Gingerly the Halfling took one of them to pass to Kíli. Once the cube had dropped into the dwarf’s larger hand the lines flared brightly, and silver runes began to shine and fade on the surface of the cube.

 

Closing his hand around the cube Kíli listened to the whispers emanating from the stone. This was no map on paper, no drawn plan of a sort, it was so much more, a map, a memory carved into stone taken from the very bedrock of the Mountain it now depicted. Understanding the map meant to allow the mind to sink into the stone, and to listen, Kíli wonder how much stronger the effect might be inside Moria, how much the ancient walls of the fallen city could guide him, if he trusted the stone to still remember.

 

When he looked at Bilbo he saw the Hobbit shake his head. “I should have known, the love for secretive artifacts clearly runs in your family.” He said. “Can you tell me what it is a map of?”

 

“Khazad-dûm,” Kíli said. “I may have to take stone with me, when I go there. Mahal alone knows how long and deep I well have to search to find Estel.”

 

“Estel is in Moria?” Bilbo asked alarmed. “You better do not plan on going alone, Kíli.”

 

“He believes some trail as to his father’s fate in the deeps of Moria,” Kíli explained. “what good son would not go and find out? No dwarf has dared to pass the threshold of Dwarrowdelf in many generations. It is my hope that the Orcs have not yet recovered from their losses during the Battle of the Five Armies and that the deeps will be empty… but I doubt it.”

 

“All the more reason for you not to go alone,” Bilbo insisted. “you will need to have some to guard your back, and someone who can sneak up to orcs and goblins unseen.”

 

“Bilbo, Moria is a dangerous place, the lower levels sunk into water, or a shadow of fear, it is said and there is no one in living memory who can truly say what will await down there.”

 

“And going against a dragon was not dangerous?” Bilbo’s hand rested at his hips, elbows pointing outward. “and hunting Trolls, Stonewyrms and Raiders with you, wasn’t? Kíli… you are my friend, and I will not let you into such danger alone.”

 

Kíli smiled, then put a hand on Bilbo shoulder. “Thank you,” he said warmly. “I am glad you’ll be with me.”

 

TRB

 

The very same night two shadowy figures met outside the mountain in what remained of the ruins of Dale. One of the two had already been waiting in the entrance of a half collapsed sewer, while the other only joined him past Midnight. “You could have chosen a better place to meet,” the late arrival grumbled. “Dwalin has the whole countryside swarming with patrols, distrustful that one.”

 

The first figure laughed a gurgling, raspy laugh. “With good reason, thief, the warmaster knows something moves in this land, unheard and unseen… he does not know what it is, but he feels the presence. It makes him nervous.”

 

“Not nervous enough, Draghar,” the second one replied, scornfully. “and I don’t see what skulking around in the ruins of Dale will bring either of us. You promised me…”

 

“I promised you vengeance, thief, and vengeance you shall get.” If possible the gurgle in Draghar’s voice became more pronounced. “A vengeance much better than just to sneak into the Mountain and cut Thorin Oakenshield’s throat – which would be your style I presume?”

 

“Killing his little blond pet might be more satisfying,” the Thief could not see Draghar’s face, for the other dwarf had covered most of it with a black scarf, only two hard, sparkling eyes visible behind the masquerade. “but if you can do better…”

 

“Much better – destroying him utterly, destroy his reputation, his legend. That should suit you just fine, Thief. And now listen – you will follow this tunnel until you reach a long flight of stairs, you will simply follow in the same direction until you can go no further, at that point you will find a stone bridge leading to a closed door – that is your destination. You will place these crystals on the door and cover them with your own blood.”

 

“My blood? Why?”

 

“Fool, you may of illegitimate birth, the ‘wrong side of the blanket’ as they say, but you still carry the blood of Durin’s House, faint though it might be. It will unseal what was sealed, open what is closed and unlock the gate. Once you are done, retreat and do it swiftly. You do not want to meet, what comes from the deeps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the unbetaed state of this chapter – it was written in between pre-Easter activities. So please bear with me.
> 
> A small note on dwarf ages – Tolkien never gives us a clear aging process of the dwarves beyond some basic facts, so I had to make up my own logic here which is:
> 
> Aged 0 – 20 is ‘small dwarfling’ age, reaching about the equivalent of 7 in human years by the end of the period  
> Aged 20 – 40 is ‘growing dwarfling’ age, reaching about the equivalent of 14 in human years by the end of the period  
> Aged 40 – 60 begins the slowing of the aging process, reaching about the equivalent of 17 in human years   
> Aged 60 – 75 levels out the slowing process, reaching about 20 of human years   
> Aged 75 – 90 is the “maturing phase” where a dwarf grows into full physical and mental adulthood, about 25 human years in comparison.  
> From 90 – 190 is the “weathering age” where dwarves age little, but “wheather” gaining the worn, rugged looked they are well known for, but not truly aging in terms of strength or wits  
> From 190 – 250 is their “winter age” when the aging process begins again, slowly at first, and then very rapidly on the last decade of their life.
> 
> We know from the appendixes of LotR that there are exceptions, Dwalin, for example will live to 340 according to Tolkien. In this story it is explained by the logic that if a dwarf has something he is so focused on, lives for so strongly, his body will not enter the “winter age” but remain without aging for a much longer time. Dwarves were made from stone, they were made to endure, there is a part of a Dwarf’s soul that needs to tire, for the body to enter the “winter age”. As long as a dwarf’s soul does not tire, the body will not age. At least that is the logic I apply in this story, to explain cases like Dwalin (or Durin the Deathless himself!).


	14. The Opening of a Gate

Dáin II Ironfoot hated negotiations all the polite words and feigned understanding smelled like a bag of dragon dung to him. At least among dwarves he could revert to directness when called for, but with Elves at the very same table, he had to be extra polite and chose his words carefully. It also enforced negotiations in Westron, for he did not speak the Elven tongue and of course the Elf was not to know any Khuzdul. But the worst of it was that the Elf who was only here to help with the issues concerning Mirkwood was witness to the rising tensions between himself and Thorin II. 

 

“I do not quite see how this matter is of any concern to the Elves,” Dáin pointed out, casting a scathing glance at Prince Elrohir who sat opposite of him at the table. 

 

The Elf arched an eyebrow like he wanted to express surprise but the grey eyes gave Dáin a cool amused stare. “It was some of your people – Uzgar son of Reghan and Khazin son of Khazid who caused the latest altercation with my people in Esgaroth, Dáin.” He spoke politely but the was an audible hint of steel in his voice. “Aside from the obvious fact that your people were casting false accusations around, they also peddled such accusations to the Master of lake Town who in turn tried to arrest and kill several Elves from Rivendell.”

 

“From Rivendell?” Thorin interjected, seeing that this was a matter beyond the annoying tax issue that was becoming a sore point with the human city. “Who was it and what were those accusations about?”

 

“it will have been the usual about Elves and their kin...” Dáin tried to sidetrack the discussion. “my people do find the increase of traveling High Elves disconcerting.” 

 

“The travelers were Ivordaer, Celedir and Aelin,” Elrohir igonored Dáin's words entirely. “and the first accusation was maybe the strangest of them all – Uzgar accused Aelin that too many Elves were at Erebor and it was through their or maybe our influence that he and other 'true dwarves' were barred from returning home. He did dismiss that as idle chatter of a drunkard, but the night after Uzgar and his friend Khazin carried word to the Master of Lake Town that the three Elves in question were smuggling gemstones to Erebor evading that tax he is imposing.”

 

Thorin took a deep breath, the Elves were not known for their patience and he knew all three Elves in question, they had been amongst the Riders Elrohir had brought to their aid the year the dragon died. “What happened?”

 

“What was to be expected, the Master of Lake Town sent the guard against our people, the guard did not want to hear any reasoning, weapons were drawn and a fight ensued.” Elrohir's eyes hardened. “And all because of the lies of two Iron Hills dwarves bearing a grudge that eludes me.”

 

Dáin shook his head. “You see it, Thorin, your insistence in barring these people from returning creates bloodshed already. Maybe we can reason something out to... -”

 

“No,” Thorin rose, speaking more sharply. “ _you_ better take care that _your_ people stop creating such troubles between our people and any other race.”

 

“Maybe we should leave the issue of these dwarves out of the Lake Town matter,” Fíli said, his voice calm and reasonable. “for the Master of Lake Town will use any grudge, any excuse to turn on all friends of Erebor. We need to deal with Lake Town first, no matter what we decide on the issue of the Iron Hills dwarves.” 

 

“You have a point there, Fíli,” Dáin grumbled. “Lake Town is a sore tooth for all of us. “

 

TRB

 

The talks had reconvened for the moment, and Dáin was glad to leave the table even if it was only for a short while. Walking down the long vaulted hallway outside the negotiations chamber he saw his own son – young Thorin – talk to Prince Fíli, both of them standing beside a column and laughing at something. He sighed, seeing them together like that rankled a little. When Dáin's own son had been born, nearly a ninety years ago, he had been the only suitable heir to the longbeard line and Dáin had decided to name him Thorin, maybe to endear the boy a little to Thorin Oakenshield. Who then would have thought that Thorin would adopt the brat his sister had borne a low-blooded dwarf? Or that Thorin himself would sire a son out of wedlock? 

 

Dáin sighed, studying the two dwarves who had taken no notice of him closer. Young Thorin had ruddy hair of his mother and he strong beard-growth that resembled Dáin. He had recently passed into adulthood and was shaping into a fine young warrior, Dáin had every reason to be proud of him. Fíli beside him with his mane of blond hair and finely braided mustache... had Dáin not known that Fíli was only a dozen years older than Thorin, he had guessed it were more. Not only that he braids, signifying a wive and three children did belong to an older warrior, his eyes did too. They held an expression Dáin would not place with any young warrior, he had noticed it before – at the coronation when he had seen the boys for the first time in long decades, he had observed the same weight, the same _gravitas_ with both of them. He did not hold much with his wife's constant nagging about the boys being improperly raised, impossible as Princes and all that, from what he could see they were just fine. But now that he watched Fíli laugh at one of Thorin's jokes, the laughter never truly reaching his cold blue eyes, Dáin knew he had been right in his judgment of Thorin II Oakenshield long ago and he pitied the boys. 

 

“Lord Dáin,” Fíli turned to him, “Thorin here asked to see the crypt of the Dragon Heroes, with your permission I would take him there later in the day, once the talks have ended for the day.” 

 

“I am sure he will enjoy that,” Dáin indicated his permission. “but I should like to speak to you before we reconvene.” 

 

“Certainly,” Fíli joined him as they walked down the long hallway. 

 

Dáin cast a sidelong glance at Fíli. “I noticed your brother, the Crown Prince is not here,” he stated the perfectly obvious. 

 

“King Thorin sent him on an errand of utmost importance.” Fíli replied smoothly. “Prince Kíli is the foremost defender of our people, as you must know.” 

 

“So I hear,” Dáin's statement was guarded. “he takes much after his father in that regard.” He shrewdly watched how Fíli reacted to the reminder that while Thorin was Kíli's bloodfather, Fíli himself was only an adopted nephew. But all he saw a warm smile.

 

“He truly does, between them I doubt even a second dragon could drive us from the Mountain.” Fíli's smile widened, the younger warrior well understanding which game Lord Dáin was playing, trying to ferret out rifts inside the royal family.

 

Dáin took the verbal blow, a duel meant more than just some lost rounds. He shook his head at the words. “Thorin is certainly pig-headed enough to out-stubborn another dragon.” he said grimly. “I shouldn't be surprised that he won't budge on the matter of the returning people from the Iron Hills.”

 

“Why is that matter so terribly bitter with you?” Fíli asked, a tinge of honesty in his voice. “You gave them shelter when the Mountain fell, they ought to give you their full loyalty in turn.” 

 

The lad was shrewd, turning Dáin's own arguments on him. “Look, lad,” Dáin purposefully dropped the pretenses of rank. “they want to go home, and I for one can understand that. I would want to go home to the Iron Hills as well, if we lost them. And to them Erebor is home.”

 

“Whose people they easily abandoned when the Dragon came,” Fíli pointed out.

 

“They wanted a safe haven and to feed their families. Laddie, you grew up in the long exile, you must remember what it was like – going hungry for days at an end, living on the road without a home. They wanted better for their own children – can you judge them harshly for it?”

 

Fíli sighed. “No,” he said. “and I would understand if they had sent their spouses and children to their families in the Iron Hills and stayed themselves with our people. But they fled and abandoned oaths and friendships, while others who had no claim to such ancestry or lofty ranks stayed without even thinking of slipping away. And you have not explained why you want to be rid of them so badly.”

 

“It has long caused strife among nobility,” he said being brutally honest. “they could not say no to their relations from Erebor, not after having coveted blood ties to the Mountain for so many decades, but with all the families arriving, questions of precedence and even legacies began to arise. And now, that Erebor is free, many of the families who took their relatives in, feel there should be at least some recompense. But Thorin made it clear there won't be any restoration to families who 'betrayed' you. It is creating bad blood and disturbing the peace in my domain.” 

 

“So this is mainly about the families hoping for gold and treasure?” Fíli asked incredulously. “Nothing more but a pile of dead coin?” 

 

“As Thorin's nephew, one raised by him, you should understand that well enough.” Dáin was a bit taken aback by the shocked expression of the younger dwarrow. 

 

Fíli's hand sank to the hilt of his sword. “I would advise you to choose your words a bit more careful, Lord Dáin Ironfoot, I will not tolerate any slights against my King.”

 

Dáin took a step back, seeing the sudden storm of anger blaze in the blue eyes, Mahal's sweet mercy, the boy had the temper of the family after all! “It was not meant a slight,” he grumbled, his anger rising. “but the honest words of a relative, boy. I have known Thorin Oakenshield a good more decades than you have – and I know that at heart he is a greedy, possessive, cold-hearted dwarrow, who adores gold, riches and possessions as much as the next miser.” 

 

“If that is truly what you think of him, than you never knew him.” Fíli said in a hush, he could feel the mark on his chest churn, sometimes it burned so fiercely that he wondered if it would shine through his armor. Of the day Thorin had nearly fallen to the spell of gold he did not recall the blade that had nearly killed him, but the pain it had inflicted on Thorin, his Uncle's haunted gaze was something Fíli would never forget, and while he knew he could not heal that hurt entirely, he could help easing it. “You are speaking of yourself.” 

 

Dáin wondered how anyone could be so blind. The boy had practically been raised by Thorin – how could he not know what Thorin was like? 

 

A loud bronze tone, like a gong being rung loudly echoed through the hall and Fíli drew his sword. “Something is wrong,” he tensed, eyes hastily checking the hallway. “this is the alarm – back to the Hall!”

 

Dáin drew his axe, following Fíli as they raced back up the hallway, he had no doubts that this was genuine. Fíli's expression had been openly alarmed and surprised. They sprinted back towards where young Thorin was standing by the columns. When they had nearly reached him, a second gong echoed through the hall, Dáin did not know what it meant, but he could guess that it was the call for more troops.

 

Suddenly the wall before them exploded, heavy chunks of stone raining down on the corridor, more followig as two huge scaled paws pushed through the gap in the wall, easily crumbling two of the pillars. Dáin's eyes widened horrified when he saw the huge scaled body of a deformed lizard crawl into the hallway. 

 

“Black Wyrm!!” Thorin Oakenshield's voice thundered from the door of the hall. “get away from him!” 

 

Dáin felt Fíli push him forward and along the still whole wall on the other side of the hall. The wyrm's tail came about smashing the bases of two more pillars, the powerful columns crashing down into the shaking hallway. 

 

“Elrohir! The tail!” Thorin was sprinting towards the Wyrm, Orcrist shining in his hand like an angry star. The scaly head ducked and the wide jaws opened, like the creature hoped Thorin might walk right into it's mouth. The dwarven King did nothing of that sort, but used his sword against the large fangs of the creature, smashing the two largest teeth in the wyrm's mouth. The beast roared, the head rising and paws swiping Thorin against the wall. 

 

From the corner of his eye Thorin saw Elrohir skitter past the wyrm's main body. The elven warrior had grabbed on the javelins from the wall decorations, the weapon impaled the wyrm's tail and nailed it to the ground. Again the creature screamed, the high pitched wails of pain ringing in their ears, but the pain hindered the wyrm from freeing the tail again. 

 

Thorin jumped to his feet, racing to attack again, the paws swiping him aside. Elrohir and Fíli reaching his side, both of them following him into the next attack, Fíli taking Elrohir's example and nailing a paw in similar fashion to the floor. Thorin saw his chance as the wyrm snapped after Elrohir, who was simply too quick for the wyrm. Thorin moved between the elf and the beast, ramming Orcrist into the roof of the creature's mouth. 

 

The black wyrm sagged forward, acidic drool running over the hard floor. Thorin yanked his sword free, turning around to check for Dáin and his son, when he heard a trip-trip-trip sound from the hole in the wall. He knew that sound – no matter how long a time ago he had last heard it. More attackers were coming. 

 

TRB

 

Bilbo tightened his hand around Arrow's reins as he led the pony up the narrow path, a cool wind fell from the mountains and made him shiver. They had ridden like the wild wind, taking the shortest route towards the gates of Moria and while spring had been in the coming these last few weeks, the wind from the peaks of the Misty Mountains was still icy. 

 

The path widened and Bilbo caught up with Kíli who was leading Snowblaze by the reins too. “Are you sure he would not have taken the Western Gate?” Bilbo inquired. “It would make sense if he went from Rivendell.”

 

Kíli shook his head. “Elrohir knew reliably that no one in all Rivendell knows the word for the Hollin Gate. Which is ironic in it's own way, as the gate was only built during the second age to facilitate trade and friendship with the Elves in Hollin. An elf even helped to make those gates.”

 

“Celebrimbor of Hollin,” Bilbo had read about Moria in a number of books in the library of Erebor. “But if the Eastern Gate is older, how come that it's password is still known?” He knew that the Eastern Gate was the original gate of Moria, built by Durin the Deathless himself, long before the Elves returned from the shores of Valinor, even before the first sun would shine on Arda heralding the world changed forever. 

 

“The gate was damaged, it's spell broken when Durin's Bane drove our people from Dwarrowdelf,” Kíli replied. “That's how the Orcs were able to use it in the battle of Azanulbizar.” 

 

The road ahead wound around a bend and then opened to a wide Dale with a cold shimmering lake. Bilbo's heart suddenly hammered against his ribcage. This was is – Azanulbizar – the site of the greatest battle the dwarves had fought in this age, here King Thrór had fallen from Azog's blade and here Thorin had fought the pale Orc, hacking off his arm. He had heard the story so often that standing here felt like stepping into a legend.

 

He peered over the wide rocky vale, the stoney slopes that led towards the gaping hole in the mountainside. The grey rocks seemed unassuming and cold in the light of spring day, nothing to indicate the tale of suffering, sacrifice and courage that had transpired here so long ago. Still Bilbo stepped more gingerly as they moved along the lakeside, unable to not look at the cold slopes. 

 

He nearly stumbled when Kíli suddenly stopped, they had reached the upper end of Mirrormere, where three simple grey stones had been hewn with the runes of Mahal, the Grey and the Shade. Bilbo's throat tightened, the three runes usually would be used to mark a grave that would be unmarked otherwise. Here they marked a mass grave. Unable to built stone cairns for the thousands, tens of thousands of fallen dwarves, the survivors had burned the bodies and sunk the ashes into the lake. No monument to commemorate their fallen King, nor the thousands that had fallen with him. 

 

“Would you mind guarding the horses?” Kíli asked him, handing over the reins. “I should like a moment alone.”

 

“Of course,” Bilbo could have kicked himself. For him it was a grand if tragic tale that had transpired here. For Kíli it was the story of his _family._ Fíli's father Dari lay buried here, along with their Uncle Frérin, their great-grandfather Thrór and others. While Kíli had been only a small dwarfling when it all had happened, Bilbo had no doubt he did remember in a way, within the span of days most of his family had vanished, leaving only Thorin and Dís to take care of the children. Bilbo could only admire how Thorin had found the strength to go on from here, being the example that inspired so many of the orphans of this battle to pick up the pieces of their lives and rebuilt. 

 

Kíli approached the water's edge, between the markstones and knelt down. He did not feel awe or calm, like the crypts in the Mountain would echo, only a heart wrenching sadness. From the pouch at his belt he took a stone, a dark stone from Erebor and weighed it in his hand. All dwarves wanted to be buried close to the bones of the Earth, to the stone of their homeland and while many would maintain that the dead of Azanulbizar rested peacefully in the Shadow of the oldest home of the dwarven nations, near the deepest of stones, in his heart he felt that Thrór and his people would have wished to be close to Erebor in death still. 

 

“ _We brought them home, great-father, our people are safe again.”_ Kíli whispered, before moving his hand over the cold unmoving water and let go of the stone, watching it sink into the deeps that held the remains of an entire dwarven army. The dark waters swirled in slow rings touching the shore, in the darkening afternoon light Kíli saw his own reflection in the deep, his own face looking at him from the water, only it was not quite his own face. It was an older, sterner face looking up at him, a few grey streaks marring his dark hair, and a scar on his forehead, giving him an older, harder expression. The waters darkened even more and blurred...

 

_Kíli was racing along the crumbling bridge, shrill Goblin shrieks echoing from above and several grey skinned foes dropped down in front of him. He beheaded the first, kicked the next off the bridge, the third and fourth went as quickly. Kíli reached the end of the bridge where Dwalin and Boromir had been fighting, Boromir's black blade just stabbing the Goblin leader. “Are you alright?” Kíli asked, his breath flying. “I had not expected Goblins here.”_

 

_Boromir laughed. “They heard of your return and decided to sent some envoys right away to greet you warmly.”_

 

_Kíli felt a grim laugh rise in his throat, Dwalin grinned openly. “let's find the rest of them, and then we'll have to scorch their ugly city again to teach them some manners.”_

 

The vision faded, and again Kíli saw his own face in the waters, his breath caught in his throat. Boromir... how was this even possible? He stared at the waters like they did hold the answer, but all he saw was the light of the stars reflecting in the dark waves, placing bright sprinkles on his face. Closing his eyes, he willed the tears away that threatened to rise in his eyes, and when he opened them again, the wind was ruffling the waters of mirrormere, destroying any reflections. 

 

TRB

 

Elrohir felt something cold touching his head and blinked, the dull ache in his skull slowly fading away. Opening his eyes, he found himself sitting on the rubble of a smashed corridor, and bodies – dozens of bodies of creatures lying strewn around. They looked like Goblins, if one accepted that Goblins were dark skinned and claw-footed. His gaze focused and he tried to push himself up. “Careful there,” he heard a familiar voice. “you got quite the shock when you smashed that crystal of theirs.”

 

“Thorin?” Elrohir saw Thorin approach, he had checked on other wounded in the hall. The dwarven King squatted down beside him. “do you remember what happened?” he asked.

 

“Aye, Goblins came from the tunnel, they carried a strange crystal, we fought... I smashed the crystal, they shrieked... everything is dark after that.” 

 

“You passed out from the shock, the magic of the destroyed crystal was too much for you.” Thorin said. “You saved a lot of lives by being so swift, they could not remain here once the crystal was destroyed and had to retreat.” 

 

“You don't look like it was victory.” Elrohir observed, his hand finding a solid piece of pillar to help him stand up. 

 

Thorin rose and offered a hand, helping Elrohir to his feet. “It wasn't,” he said grimly.

 

Looking at the dwarf Elrohir saw that Thorin's own injuries were untreated, his armor damaged and he looked pale and tired. “Fíli – your family, are they alright?” he asked.

 

“Fíli was injured, but he will live, Dáin was seriously injured by one of the collapsing columns...” Thorin sighed. “his son got dragged away when they retreated.” 

 

Elrohir had a thousand questions, but if he had learned one thing from Aelin it was to focus on one problem at one time. “Do you know from whence they came?” If there was any chance to find them, the young dwarf Lord could be rescued still. Taking stock of his own injuries, Elrohir concluded it was nothing too serious and nothing that would not heal swiftly enough. 

 

“Aye, and I will go after them. I may not like Dáin but they took his son.” Thorin shook his head. “and I owe him this obligation.” he cast a nearly angry glance at Elrohir. “Don’t you dare offer your help again, elf.”

 

Elrohir knew Thorin well enough to know when pride would overrule Thorin's decisions, when he consciously tried to push others away, because he had resolved to do something on his own. He was a proud, stubborn and brave warrior – a great friend too. “As an elf I wouldn't dare to do so,” he said calmly. “but as a friend, I will come with you either way as you seem not inclined to lead your army after the goblins.”

 

“I cannot take them, where I need to go.” Thorin told him. “Old oaths prevent me to do so. These oaths may not mentioned elves – but you have no idea what you are getting yourself into, Elrohir. And I will not lead a friend to his death.”

 

The words elicited a smile on Elrohir's face, Thorin was maybe the most complicated and contradictory friend he had, but he would not give up this friendship for anything. “As I recall you still owe me the test against a dragon, as Kíli killed Smaug before I was here,” he picked up his sword that was still sticking in a corpse and swiftly cleaned it on a dead goblin's cloak. 

 

Thorin looked at the son of Elrond and wondered at the ironies of fate. He would usually have taken Lachanar on this journey, but that way he could leave the woodland elf to protect Fíli. Which suited him well, he wanted someone with... experience... in Fíli's vicinity, in case it became necessary. “Very well, then.” he announced his decision. “see a healer and meet me here again at First Rise.” 

 

Thorin strode through the damaged halls Dwalin's troops secured the mountain, there had been fighting in many places, but the War Master had accepted Thorin's curt words that the nature of their attackers was nothing Thorin could discuss. 

 

Lachanar had been checking several hallways for more breaches, when he heard Thorin approach. He knew the King's step at once, without even turning about. “I think the true breach we need to find lies deeper than these tunnels,” he observed, trying to keep his voice steady.

 

Thorin stepped past him to face him. “There is only one place where the breach can have occurred – the gate. You know that as well as I do, Lachanar.” 

 

“Aye, Thorin... “

 

Thorin could see Lachanar wanted to speak, to ask something and he raised his hand to forestall the words. “You remember,” he said evenly, he had seen the occasional moments of clarity that had occurred as the years passed. “and I will answer your questions, once I return. For now I need you to protect Fíli.” 

 

“He does not know, I take it?” Lachanar's chest tightened, Thorin's nearly callous admission of being aware of Lachanar's memory gaps hurt, but he kept a tight control on it. “Kíli does, of course.”

 

“Exactly, and I wish for Fíli to remain free of that nightmare, it is for Kíli and me to bear that burden. But with the gate breached, danger is imminent and I need you to protect him. If it becomes necessary use this,” Thorin handed Lachanar a simple blue chalcedony stone. “and you will remember it all. I trust you to protect Fíli and my family while I am gone.” 

 

There it was again – Thorin's trust in him, even with something a garbled as this. Lachanar took the crystal, closing his hand around it. He would not break Thorin's trust – they could talk about this when he returned. “I will protect them with my life.” he promised.

 

Thorin smiled, a small smile that did not reach his eyes. “I know, Lachanar. Leave Dís to handling Dáin once he wakes up, he will not dare to give her grief.” 

 

“What about the Gate?” Lachanar asked. 

 

“Dís will take care of that, they did not retreat through the gate directly, they used another tunnel. Until the gate is secured again, no one is to enter the ruins of Dale.” 

 

TRB

 

The dwarf standing in the broken hallway only an hour later would easily be mistaken for someone else than the King of the Mountain. Thorin wore a practical scale armor, suited to traveling, along with a coat, Orcrist and his pack on his back. But for the more greyed hair he looked much the dwarf who had returned to the Mountain to fight a dragon twenty years ago. 

 

He turned around when he saw Elrohir approach, the elf too had changed from formal attire to war gear, chainmail armor, swords and bow, a dark leather brigantine over the silver rings of the armor. They did not talk as they climbed through the hole in the wall and descended into the broken gap the wyrm had clawed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note
> 
> I really have to apologize for the unbetead state of this chapter – I got the flu over easter and am writing from my bed. My voice is so gone, I can't even try to talk to my dear beta. So I apologize for not waiting with the post...


	15. In places deep

They had left the horses behind, they would have to find their way home alone. Kíli stood at the entrance of Moria, his hand hand lightly resting on the broken gate. There was a deep echo he could feel rise from the stone, like a whisper brushing against his waking mind. A cool draft came from the tunnel before them, the air smelling slightly dank and although he strained his hearing he could not perceive the slightest noise rising from the deep. 

 

Bilbo joined him, the Halfling's eyes peering curiously into darkness before them. None of them spoke as they left the gate behind and entered Dwarrowdelf. The tunnel behind the gate was clean and level, there were no traces of any presence, not even of Orcs. After a few paces the tunnel bent around a corner and opened up into a wide hall with a deep chasm.

 

Squatting down beside the rim of the ravine, Bilbo cast a glance down into the deep. He had of course read of the deep rift that was part of Moria's natural defenses but actually seeing it was quite a different thing. “There is no other way in than the bridge?” he asked softly, glancing at Kíli, who stood closer to the bridge.

 

“Yes and no, any other way is no straight path, but needs a dwarven portal. If Estel entered here, he would have come this way.” Kíli replied, he held a glow-crystal in his left hand, the soft light augmenting his already good sight in the darkness. There were no signs of anyone passing through here recently on this side of the bridge. But the stone ground did not lend itself to searching for tracks. “Let's pass the bridge quickly, Bilbo, it is a dangerous spot.”

 

Bilbo rose and joined him, he too carried a glow crystal, one brighter than the one Kíli used, to be able to see anything in the dark underground. He went on the bridge first, with Kíli behind him. Bilbo smiled, the bridge was narrow, a slender stone arch spanning the chasm of the deeps and like always the dwarves had not cared to built any banisters or parapets. They were nearly across the huge arch when his foot came into contact with an item on the floor. He raised his hand to signal Kíli to stop and then squatted down to pick it up. The item his foot had found was the wooden end of a burned out torch. Bilbo took a closer look and sniffed at it, the faint smell of ash and smoke was still on the wood. “This was only used recently,” he said softly, handing the torch end to Kíli.

 

The dwarf inspected the remain of the torch quickly. “You are right, Bilbo. Though why someone would step on the bridge with a burning out torch is beyond me.”

 

“Either crossing took him longer than he thought,” Bilbo suggested as they went on and made their way down the bridge. “or he was too distracted to notice. Or he had the replacement at hand, and simply dropped the old torch when it was finished.” Either way, they now knew that someone had entered Moria recently, and there was a high chance it was the man they were looking for. 

 

On the other side of the bridge, they stood in a wide hall, supported by three rows of mighty pillars. Several exits led out of the hall. “How would Estel have hoped to find his way here?” Bilbo asked in a hush. He could of course see the small, unobtrusive signs on the walls and pillars, things that looked like ornaments or fanciful patterns carved into the stone, that were truly directions and markers of position. On the base of the columns he found the repeated pattern saying that they were standing in second hall of the first height, if one was familiar with the way dwarves marked and numbered their halls, these could help with orientation. But Bilbo knew that he only could read these signs so effortlessly, because he had the privilege of having lived at Erebor for two decades and being taught by those who had not forgotten their ancient secrets. Estel would not be able to even read the Khuzdul markers on the walls... how could he hope to navigate these halls?

 

“If he identified the Deeps of Az-Ganhar as part of Moria, he may be using what the Elves know of Moria to help himself,” Kíli replied softly. “during the second age there was a long period of friendship between the Elves of Hollin and Moria... and I am sure the Elves created notes and maybe even some maps of the more common parts of Dwarrowdelf.”

 

“So we assume he knows where he needs to go?” Bilbo could see the logic in that. “The Deeps of Az-Ganhar have their entrance in the seventh deep, twenty-third hall. Seven down and twenty ahead for us.”

 

“Aye, nearly a day's walk.” Kíli agreed, walking towards the exit at the other end of the hall, Bilbo following him.

 

Dwarrowdelf lay in silence, only their own steps echoing from the dark walls, sometimes the echo would hold noises from far away, like crumbling stones falling in a distance. After a few hours Bilbo had gotten used to the great silence enveloping the halls of Khazad-dûm, most of the time he was sneaking ahead of Kíli, his own soft footfall hardly audible over Kíli's firm step. The vast emptiness made Bilbo marvel, Erebor was certainly not small, but Dwarrowdelf was many times larger, a place that could hold ten times the populace of Erebor and still have room left. 

 

The first hazard of Moria Bilbo learned were neither Orcs nor foul things, but the crumbly city itself, having fallen into disrepair for centuries many a wall or stairwell was not stable anymore, the risk of breaking stones and sudden falls became more and more pronounced as they continued to venture into the deeper levels. 

 

They stuck to the third depth for the moment, hoping to pass the Hall of Ancient Records before descending to the Deeps of Az-Ganhar. After many hours of walking Bilbo discovered the remains of a small camp, someone had used the broken beams from a nearby room to make a fire in one of the tunnels. Raising his glow crystal he inspected the ashes. “Only a few days ago,” he said to Kíli. “there is little else to make guesses about, but someone camped here. Why he would have made a fire though, is beyond me. The tunnels are not that cold.” 

 

Kíli traced his hand over the cold ashes. “Maybe he had no other light,” he said softly. “and the darkness felt too oppressive when it crept up on him.” he wished he could tell for sure that this was Estel's camp, he hoped it was, and that it had only Men's pronounced fear of the dark that had compelled him to make a fire. He saw Bilbo suppress a yawn. “Let's do the same, we both can do with a few hours of sleep.” he said. 

 

They camped down on the stone floor not far from the cold fire place. With them being only two, having someone stand guard while the other slept was all but impossible and so they both settled for whatever rest they could get. Bilbo soon falling asleep and Kíli dozing off, sitting against the wall. Around them stretched the great silence of Moria. 

 

TRB

 

Elrohir slipped down the last piece of the broken tunnel the wyrm had dug and landed on more even grounds. Looking to the side he saw that he stood in an even tunnel, a dwarven tunnel if the clean stonework was any indication. The tunnel stretched to the left and right while opposite of him was another hole in the wall that the wyrm had clawed itself up. Thorin stood there, peering down the shaft. “This is steep... I wonder how they made it down again,” he said.

 

Elrohir joined him, peering over the edge of the jagged hole. The walls fell down steeply towards a cave far below them. Looking at the tunnel to their side again, he noticed something, a small glittering spot on the floor in the even tunnel. “Maybe they didn't.” he said, swiftly moving up the even tunnel until he reached what he had seen. A small item lay on the stone floor, a golden hair-clasp. “but maybe they want us to think they went down the wyrm's hole.”

 

Thorin studied the clasp for a moment. “It is one of the boy's clasps,” he said. “but why would they drag him that way?”

 

“Where does this tunnel lead?” Elrohir could see no markings or other signs on the grey walls surrounding them. 

 

“It used to connect to the ancient dwarven road that leads to the Ered Mithrin,” Thorin said. “but that way has been barred for many generations. It's a dead end.”

 

“Does it link with whence the wyrm came somewhere?” Elrohir had seen many an Orc-hole but he knew that his keen senses were nothing compared to a dwarf's senses underground.

 

Thorin looked at him thoughtfully. “You have a point, Elrohir. I think I know where they are going.” Without further words he headed off into the tunnel with haste. 

 

For hours they followed the tunnel in haste, on the even grounds of the tunnel they had hope to make up for the time they had lost earlier. Elrohir's senses told him vaguely that they were moving North, but beyond that he had little idea where they were headed. 

 

Eventually the tunnel twisted before them and led down towards a crossing. Two ways conjoined under the heavy vaulted ceiling. Elrohir slowed his step. “How many miles of road did your people built beneath Middle Earth, Thorin?”

 

The dwarf stopped and turned to him. “Many,” he said grimly. “and they fell into disuse the further the Orcs and other dark creatures burrowed up to us.”

 

They had reached the crossing, it was simple, still with no markings on the walls. Elrohir peered around, hoping to spot some clue as to whence the young Thorin's captors had moved, a sudden movement startled him. From the shadows of the crossing something jumped at him. He ducked, and the figure missed him, landing not a far away. Spinning around Elrohir expected a twisted goblin much like the ones they had fought before – but he was wrong.

 

The figure squatted on the ground was a dwarf, or it could have been one – the short, broadshouldered stature certainly bespoke such ancestry, only his face was twisted and deformed, and strange scars marred his skull. “Eat you...” the figure growled, leaping into attack. 

 

Elrohir was so surprised that he only just managed to block the attack by the crude iron blade the dwarf creature was wielding. “We are not your enemies,” he was not sure the crazed dwarf understood him, but he tried to reach him still.

 

“Hungry,” the dwarf mewled, but before he could attack again, one fell stroke of Orcrist ended him. 

 

Thorin yanked the blade free. “You cannot talk reason to them, Elrohir, no matter how much that might horrify you.” The dwarf said roughly.

 

Slowly Elrohir sheathed the blade, still not quite able to reconcile with what he had just seen. “Where did he come from, Thorin?” 

 

The dwarf king pointed to their right, where the crossing's pathway led down into a stairwell and towards a black stone door, standing slightly ajar. “And that is where we must follow – that is where they dragged young Thorin down.” he raised his other hand, showing a few reddish brown hair streaks. “I found these on the stairs, at least the boy did not lose his head – or his wits.”

 

TRB

 

It was a movement in the darkness that startled Kíli from his uneasy slumber. It was nothing more but that, a swirl of air, a movement, hardly perceptible, no noise accompanied the tense feeling that someone had come too close. Forcing his breathing to remain steady, Kíli peered into the darkness beneath his eyelashes, while he let one of his knives slip into his hand. 

 

A shadowy figure moved beneath the shadows, crouched and thin, the figure was only half a step away from Kíli himself, coming closer very slowly, like fear was warring against every step it took. It was too silent for an Orc as well.

 

Thin, boney fingers touched his arm, tracing over the leather bracer and up to his elbow. Kíli willed himself to be still, to not give away that he awake. The closer his unwanted visitor came, the easier the fight would be. He could have killed the lurker at a distance but something inside his heart warned him, staying his hand. The hand reached his shoulder, brushing against his long hair. He felt the hand suddenly still, very carefully touching his mane. 

 

“Dwarrow...?” a hoarse voice rasped.

 

It had not been more than a very low rasping sound, hardly to be called a voice but the noise had been enough to startle Bilbo from his sleep. The Halfling leaped to his feet, sword in one hand and the his glow crystal in the other. The crisp white cone of light illuminating a meager, ragged figure, with thin pale hair dressed in the worst tatters imaginable. 

 

The figure raised the hands to shield from the light. “Please... no harm...” again the words were croaked, but spoken Khuzdul, only moments before the mangled dwarf ran away, vanishing down a dark tunnel.

 

Kíli grabbed his pack and sprinted after the vanishing figure, with his dwarven eyes, well adjusted to the darkness under the mountains, he was able to see the vague form of the fleeing dwarrow. A dwarf... had he guessed when something in him refused to simply kill the lurker? Or had it been something else that had made him hesitate? He could not say. 

 

Bilbo was behind him as they followed the lurker down a long flight of stairs, and then down into yet another tunnel. They had to hurry, because their unwanted visitor raced around several corners swiftly, trying to shake them off. Eventually Kíli saw him vanish though the huge entrance way of a hall – his eyes registering the numbers on the stone arch. 3 Depths, 21st hall – the Hall of ancient records. 

 

“Kíli, wait.” Bilbo put his smaller hand on Kíli's arm. “This hall is a dead end, whatever that was, it has to hide in there.” 

 

Sometimes Kíli admired how Bilbo could keep track of such details in the heat of the moment, he often reminded Kíli of things that the warrior would forget in the middle of the action. “Then it will be easier to find him,” he replied softly. 

 

“Do we have to?” Bilbo asked, not for fear but for being reasonable. “He certainly was not Estel. Who knows what else haunts these halls?”

 

“That was a dwarf, Bilbo,” he said, his eyes trained on the dark entranceway. “the Orcs sometimes keep captives to do work – they keep them slaves under the Mountains until they die for lack of food and air. Dwarves often last longer than others.” 

 

Bilbo sighed, nothing Kíli said was terribly new to him. “He did not seem very captive to me,” he pointed out, in the absence of Ánar and Hlévar it was his sole job to protect Kíli, which he could do best by being reasonable. Not that Ánar and his brother ever were, they simply followed Kíli and relied on their blades to have his back. 

 

Kíli knew Bilbo was not speaking from fear, he was always the one to suggest caution, reasonable actions, and more than once had made Kíli aware of traps he might have jumped otherwise. But not here. “Bilbo, who knows how long he has been down here? Forgotten, maybe escaped but never free? He is one of our people and I will not leave him here.”

 

Ducking his head Bilbo knew he was going to lose that debate. Kíli would go into the Hall of records to find their nightly stalker, no matter how dangerous it was. Thorin and Fíli were no better, and Bilbo loved them all three for it – they cared so much about their people, that they'd not even think of the risks they had to take sometimes. If it came to rescuing their people, they'd do whatever it took, no matter how hair-brained the plan was. “I'll keep to the shadows and have your back,” he said. “in case things go wrong.” 

 

Kíli took his own glow-crystal from the pouch at his belt, but kept the light very faint as he entered the ancient Hall of records. The pale shimmer just enough to illuminate his immediate surroundings, that consisted of stone shelves, tumbled over and broken, along with the remains of books and scrolls long desecrated. “I am a dwarrow like you are,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle, avoid all harsh notes. “I mean you no harm.” 

 

“Stay away...” the voice rasped somewhere from the dark, Kíli could pinpoint it to somewhere from his left side. 

 

“I will not harm you,” he repeated. “you have nothing to fear from me. You stopped when you saw that I was a dwarrow like you are.” 

 

“Long not seen any... no dwarrows... all dead... all gone...” the voice whispered harshly. “me alone left... in the dark...”

 

This time Kíli could pinpoint a more concrete direction inside the hall. “My name is Kíli,” he replied. “What is your name?”

 

“No name... shamed ones do not have names... no name any more. Kíli... son of the storm... a strong name...” The voice had become a little steadier, but there was a clear and fearful note in it as well. “... will you kill me?”

 

Shamed, Kíli knew that the word was used in too many a context to be sure what had happened to this dwarrow. He slipped off his pack, and put his bow and swords down beside it. “I will not harm you,” he said stepping away from his weapons. “you have my word. If you do not have a name, will you mind if I call you Yurar?” His pulse raced as he took two more steps away from his weapons and to the left. Much depended on how far their lost dwarrow was willing to let himself to be talked to.

 

“Yurar... Voice in the Dark... too good a name,” the voice was croaked once more. “but... you speak of giving names like you have a right to it.”

 

Kíli smiled a little, the last had been nearly a normal sentence. “I do,” he slipped past one of the broken shelves and a pillar on the other side. “How long have you been here, Yurar?” 

 

“Long... too long, the gates were running red with blood when they dragged me under... when I was shamed... long years in the dark, no time passes in the stone and the world above forgets. Escaped long later, when many of them left... rode out never to return. Found death in far off lands and I escaped. The Pale One... he never came back.” 

 

The Pale One... Azog! The memory of the pale Orc astride his white Warg, still sent a shiver down Kíli's spine. Even twenty years after the Battle before the gates of Erebor, he still felt some of the horror, he had felt the day when he had seen that Orc leading the charge against them. “He died, he was destroyed by those he had sworn to wipe out.” He could see the other dwarf now – crouched in a corner of the room, eyes clear and tense in the light of crystal. 

 

“Durin's Blood...” the dwarf whispered. “did... did they destroy that monster?” He jumped when he saw Kíli suddenly so close.

 

Kíli squatted down, getting to eye height with the crouched figure, he kept his hands wide, in as non-threatening a gesture as he knew how to make. “Yes. Prince Thorin avenged his grandfather and brother when he killed Azog and he brought our people home to the Mountain.” 

 

The old dwarf straightened up a little, his pale hair falling back as he looked up at Kíli, he wore no beard and in the pale light of the crystal Kíli could see a long white scar alongside his throat. “Then... then not all of us died... in the battle? Others survived? Not just the shamed?” 

 

“Many survived,” very carefully Kíli reached for Yurar's hands to hold them between his, in a gesture of trust among dwarrow. Sometimes the unspoken tongue of Iglishmek with it's thousands gestures and hand touches could say more than all the words a dwarf may find. “many survived and they kept on fighting until they could go home again. And if you will let us, we will bring you home as well.” 

 

TRB

 

The black stone door stood ajar like it had been forced open. Thorin had studied the engravings on the door's wings for a moment, tracing his fingers over the pale lines. “Blood – one of them must have been opened with blood? Who would do such a thing? Break a seal that held several gates shut?” 

 

Elrohir had no answer, nor did he expect Thorin truly to want one. He could sense an echo, like a dark whisper from beyond. What deeps of the world lay ahead of them? The Elven warrior did not ask, Thorin's whole demeanor forbade it, Elrohir could tell that the dwarf was not yet ready to answer questions. 

 

Thorin was the first to pass the gate, Elrohir followed him through the gap. Behind was no new tunnel like he would have expected. Instead they stood on a small stone aisle, and before them the ground fell towards a deep chasm. Narrow ledges formed pathways along the walls. “We need to get away from the gate,” Thorin whispered. “an open exit is rarely unguarded for long.” 

 

Moving along the ledge leading down proved to be risky, for it was small, broken and damaged so badly that even with Elrohir's elven balance he came close to falling several times. Thorin moved with the secure step of a dwarf having the bones of the earth under his feet. Eventually the ledge led them into a tunnel, that wound downwards even more. Elrohir had the distinct impression they were passing through a gate sector, a place built only for the purpose of handling traffic from below to the surface – but from which below? Elrohir wondered. What kind of underground realm were they entering? 

 

The tunnel mouth opened before them and they reached another aisle of stone. Elrohir's breath logged in his throat – they stood before the deepest chasm he had ever seen, the ground fell before them into a darkness even an elven eye could not pierce. But beyond the chasm rose a huge stone pillar, filled with buildings. An entire _city_ residing atop this dark abyss. Once it must have been beautiful, the shape of towers and walls still held an echo of beauty, though now it was only a ruin – a ruin illuminated by the light of fires burning between broken walls, casting flickering shadows on the shattered walls. 

 

A spark rose from the dark below them and a flame seared upwards, in the sudden light Elrohir could perceive a lava stream down in the deep. A fiery chasm, so deep underground it never had seen light. On the other side he heard shrieks, and saw shadows moving, he could not guess what kind of beings they were – but they were moving, many of them, filling the ruin and tunnels on the other side. He leaned forward to see better but Thorin's strong arm pulled him back to the shadows. “Careful,” the dwarf said. “no one from lighter lands has come to these deeps in a long time. Better to not chase up the denizens before we have to.” 

 

“Do you know where to go?” Elrohir asked softly. This cavern was huge and if it was only part of a larger system of caves, it might take them weeks to locate young Thorin. 

 

“Aye, the stone is strong here, I can sense his direction.” Thorin pointed to a stone platform inside the abyss. “Do you think you can jump there? We need to circumvent the ruins and go further North.”

 

TRB

 

The ruins of Dale stank, Nori wrinkled his nose as he ducked under one of the ancient ruins. “Your plan is going awry, Draghar,” he grumbled. “your stupid helpers failed to kill Thorin and they took the wrong boy. They were supposed to grab the Crown Prince...”

 

“... and inconveniently grabbed Dáin's stupid son,” Draghar's voice was gurgling but unflustered. “Which achieved even more – it made Thorin himself go after him. Alone in the deeps – nearing a place he has reason to dread, he comes closer and closer to his own death, a death from the hand of one he trusts. You should be happy, thief.”

 

“I want revenge, them destroyed, humbled... no death so far away no one ever will know what happened,” Nori made a face, he did not pretend to like Draghar particularly. 

 

“So... you want them to suffer...” Draghar laughed rasping. “then I have a suggestion for you. Find a way to bring me the royal brats – their spawn. My brethren in the deep are always hungry.”

 

Nori shivered, dealing with the deep dwarves was always unpleasant. “You... you will eat them? No... that's disgusting.”

 

“So soft,” Draghar snorted bemusedly. “so still squeamish, should I be surprised, thief, that you lack the courage for true revenge. My brethren will not eat them, we will make them like us and then sent them back to their loving father.” While he spoke he pulled aside the black scarf he used to shroud his face.

 

Nori wanted to look away, the distorted, deformed face and the scars of the deep dwarves were ghastly, and Draghar's skin was marred with black, vine-like lines, making his gaunt features look like an oddly painted skull. “They would watch them change... into what you are?” he asked, trying to sound casual. 

 

“Aye... unable to save them, unable to do anything, except watching them die. The deep has no mercy for weakness.” 

 

A small part of Nori whispered that this was taking it too far, that those dwarflings had no part in the quarrel... but then, he reminded himself, who had cared that his brother had been young? No one. They had left poor Ori to die, to be eaten by the Goblins, they had saved their little Princeling and left Ori to rot. They would get their due. No one was safe in a blood feud, and that was what he was doing. Conducing a blood feud.

 

“I will bring them to you.” he said, his eyes peering out into the semi-darkness. He would need to find a way into the Mountain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note
> 
> I still need to apologize for the unbetead state of the latest chapter – I still spent most of my time in bed, thanks to fever and flu. But the story is bouncing around in my head... so here we go. 
> 
> The title of this chapter “In places deep,” is of course taken from “far over the misty mountains,” the full line is: “In places deep, where dark things sleep.” ;)


	16. ... where dark things sleep

Elrohir did not know any more how many hours they had been wandering through the eerie underground realm. Tunnels had exchanged to bridges spanning deep chasms, and always there were ruins. After what seemed like an eternity they reached a wide cavern that held no chasm for a change, it had only one other exit, on the opposite side of them. Between them and the dark mouth of yet another tunnel stood mighty fortress walls, though. And while the fortress, like all other buildings down here had fallen into gross disrepair, Elrohir held little doubt that it was a dwarven building. The craftsmanship, the elaborate forms and the patterns carved into the stone left little doubt in that matter. Now and then he had glimpsed at runes hewn into the stone, what he knew of Khuzdul was what his father had taught him, and what he would not admit to most of the time, but these runes were different – half of them he did not even recognize. 

 

When they crossed the yard in the shadow of the fortress walls, trying to head for a stairwell that led up the walls as quickly as possible, Elrohir saw several figures rise from the other side of the yard. They moved slowly, clumsily, like other shadows he had seen in this place, but suddenly they leaped forward with an agility, that made lies of their deceptive clumsiness. He drew his sword and not one moment too soon. A part of Elrohir felt sick, fighting these things – some strongly resembling dwarves, others looked like goblins, but they fought together like they all were one and the same. 

 

They were lucky this time and it was only a dozen attackers, quickly cut down. Before Elrohir could take a closer look at the corpses, Thorin pushed him towards the stairs. “Hurry, we need to get away from here. More are coming.” he followed the dwarf's instructions and hastened up the half broken stairs that led to what once had been a mighty rampart. But protecting against what? Nothing but one dark tunnel mouth was visible on the other side? Why would such a small tunnel warrant such a protection? Or was it simply the mark of a borderline? Borderline of which Kingdom?

 

Mewling sounds disrupted his thoughts, and Elrohir quickly squatted down on the wall, finding cover behind old battlements. Down in the yard dozens of new figures were crawling in, some simply appearing from the shadows, some crawling down the walls themselves but all were headed for the corpses. The noises they could hear from below left little doubt that the dead bodies would be eaten. 

 

“We better wait until that crowd disperses,” Thorin said. “they would spot us otherwise.” He headed on, until they had found some additional cover inside the top platform of an old guard tower. “We should be safe enough here, for a while at least.” Thorin sat down on the stone floor, leaning against the wall. 

 

Elrohir did the same, glad for some rest, though what was happening outside did not allow him to relax. “Thorin... what is this place? What happened to them? Some of them are dwarves... these are dwarven ruins... but they cannot be of the Realm in the Ered Mithrin... can they?” 

 

“No, the Ered Mithrin did not reach this deep,” Thorin replied. His icy blue eyes scrutinizing Elrohir, like he was searching for something. “Your father never taught you anything about a place such as this?”

 

Elrohir rubbed his hands against each other, it was a strange thing for him to feel cold but down here he did. “No.” he said. “And what I see does not make any sense, Thorin. These buildings – they are marked with a writing different from any other dwarven writing I have seen, and they are still using interlinked stone walls... which means either your stone melding did not work here, or these walls must pre-date the very walls of Moria.” He drew in a leg, resting his arms on it. “And there is _something_ down here, a darkness seeping from the very walls, it is _cold_ and...” he did not go on, but there was a warning fear he felt, whenever he tried to use his elven senses in these deeps. 

 

“You are taking it fairly well so far. Others have run screaming from the very gates of these deeps,” Thorin rumbled. “and... you will need to know. It will only get harder from here. Have you ever heard of the Silver Throne?”

 

Now Elrohir frowned. “The dwarven fairy tale?” he asked. “Of course I do, my father told these legends to me when I was much younger.” He felt Thorin's glance on him. “Are... are you saying that the story of Durin's First Realm, the Realm of the Seven Tribes are all true?”

 

“Aye,” Thorin settled a bit more relaxed against the wall. “when our ancestors woke under the stone, when the world was still young and neither sun nor moon lit the sky, they were drawn to the deep stone, they felt it sing to them and to the deep they went. And there, in the very heart of Arda the seven tribes founded the first dwarven Kingdom, unaware of the goings on at the surface, where your people wandered west and were sundered on their way.” 

 

Elrohir felt a shiver raise the hair on his neck, while all chronicles agreed the Dwarves had been woken shortly after the Firstborn, many Elves maintained it had actually been long after, but with what Thorin said, he could place it at a time in Elven history. “What happened?” he dared ask.

 

“As their realm grew the dwarves discovered tunnels and caverns that were different, darker,” Thorin went on. “the further North my people came, the more often they came across dark places in the deeps. Until one day, while building a new part of the our realm, they broke down a huge cave wall and found themselves face to face with a dark, dank cave filled with ugly creatures... goblins.”

 

“Utumno...” Elrohir whispered, when he realized what Thorin was speaking of. It had to be. Melkor had dug his stronghold of Utumno during the Spring of Arda. “But... I thought it was far more West?” 

 

“No,” Thorin said. “Utumno's heart may have lain North of Beleriand, in the very heart of what you knew of Angband. But the Mountains of Angband reached as far as the Iron hills – they are the tail end of the Iron Mountains that Melkor raised, like so many other Mountains and Volcanoes he called forth. And the tunnels of stronghold, they stretch through all the North. How did Angband's Orc's survive in Forodwaith and finally invade the Misty Mountains during the Second Age, Elrohir? By making use of the tunnels and remnants of their Master's lair. But... this is not what we speak of now. For the tunnels my people found were truly extensions of the ancient Utumno Melkor had dug himself when Arda was still young and where he had slept – his very presence drenching these halls with a darkness so deep, so strong... there is no word for it.”

 

“And when your people broke down that wall, they encountered the Orcs...” Elrohir whispered.

 

“Yes, back then, during Melkor's captivity the Orcs he had created were largely left to themselves, multiplying in the deep tunnels and dark places of his strongholds. And thus the first war began – the orcs trying to claw their way into our halls and we defending our homes.” Thorin's eyes went past Elrohir and to the walls. “I sometimes wonder if that's the only history my people will ever have – a war that never ended. As the years passed, something changed, though. A darkness began to creep into our halls, corrupting our own – dwarves began to go mad, began to deform and butcher their own. At first it was only few, with time they became more. A taint was spreading and only in time did we understand.”

 

“Understand what?”

 

Thorin leaned forward, holding Elrohir's gaze. “Your people tell that the Orcs were created from your own kind – tormented and tortured, twisted until they became the Orcs, am I right?”

 

In nearly any other situation Elrohir would have broken up the discussion, the Elves avoided discussing the Orcs and their origins whenever possible, amongst many Elves it was a forbidden topic. Elrohir's father had not held with such fears and taught his sons what he knew of the matter. “No one knows for sure,” Elrohir replied. “beyond that Elves fell into the Enemy's hands and that the Orcs are somehow linked to them, we do not know. No one ever ventured into the Deeps of Utumno to find Melkor's Riddles.”

 

It was a wiser answer than Thorin had come to expect from Elves, again Elrohir had managed to surprise him in a good way. “Who would wish to know, if it could be avoided?” he replied. “We only found out when he had to – when our people were dragged away in the dark, dragged away to return changed, deformed, defiled. They were brought to a place so dark that it was alive with Evil, a well so full of darkness, it held the very essence of the Shadow. What little remains of the report those few brave who dared approach that place made, claims that it is the same place where the Elves were brought – subjected to a darkness so deep, they changed, some becoming twisted, like the twisted dwarves you saw out there, de-volving into orcs eventually... no one dares mention what might have become of those who didn't.”

 

“Are you saying this darkness... this, whatever twisted those dwarves and even those goblins down there... that this springs from the same place where the Orcs were created?” Elrohir took a deep breath, trying to calm down. 

 

“One of the places at the very least, most of Utumno luckily sank when Beleriand drowned under the waves.” Thorin's hand touched the rough stone beside them. “But long before he was defeated, this realm here fell – our people fought, Elrohir, but they stood no chance against the creeping darkness, against the taint. Hall by Hall, cavern by cavern the lights went out in their realm – when more and more fell into shadow. In the hour of our greatest desperation it was a gift of Aule that savd us – the blue fire, the flame that can cleanse the taint. It could not save this realm, but it saved our people from being wiped out. They fled from these halls, escaping to the surface, where the stars shone coldly upon them.”

 

“And the stone doors? The Seals?” Elrohir could not help but ask, having grown up with the lore and knowledge in his father's house, he was fascinated by such a chunk of history that his people had been unaware of.

 

“While strife befell the seven tribes, Durin the Deathless swore to ensure that the Shadow would not be able to use our tunnels to reach others. He created these doors, as Mahal taught him, sealing off the Realm of the Silver Throne entirely. When it was done, our people broke up – many blaming the failure on Durin alone, others simply wishing to cave out their own realms, some even doubting that sealing the tainted dwarves in the deeps was the right decision. From all tribes though there were those who wished to still follow Durin and they became what you know today as Durin's folk. 

 

Once the seals were complete, he led them South, to what later would become Dwarrowdelf. Ever since it has been my family's task and burden to ensure the seals are secure and ever since the dark from the deeps has been clawing at us – haunting us wherever we went, there was always a shadow from the deeps to compete with.”

 

What a history, Elrohir mused, the gift to create the greatest realms underneath the Earth and the lifelong struggle to keep them safe, guarding a secret so ancient and so dark. It took a courage and strength few possessed. He recalled Thranduil's frequent mentions of something evil and sinister haunting the lands around Erebor. “Do you know how the seals could be broken?” he asked after a while.

 

“That is what worries me,” Thorin had risen to peer down to the yard where the sated lurkers slowly dispersed again. “while a seal can erode with time, and while the dragon's presence certainly did weaken one of them, I had it resealed the year after Smaug died. The taint would not vanish entirely, but to break the seals on the gate...” He fell silent, shaking his head. “It is not what should worry you.”

 

Elrohir rose, with the lurkers leaving the yard, they could move on, without risking gaining their attention. “Then what is?” 

 

Carefully they moved to the outer battlements and began to climb down the broken wall. When they were down the crumbling fortress wall, Thorin pointed ahead. “This is the borderline,” he stated. “here my people fought against the dark hordes until they were pushed back. Ahead lies the dark deeps, the tunnels a darker power dug, the reaches that brought suffering to all living peoples of Middle Earth, and we need to enter them, if we are to rescue Dáin's son.” 

 

TRB

 

Yurar had calmed considerably, or so Bilbo would describe his state of mind for the moment. Not that the old dwarf seemed entirely sane, who could be sane after living in these deeps alone for so long? But he was calmer, having actually followed Kíli out of the corner. “Yurar, someone else camped where you found us, not long ago.” Kíli asked, picking his pack up again. “Did you see him?”

 

“No dwarrow,” Yurar whispered, his voice was still rough and with the scar at his throat Bilbo wondered if the old dwarf would ever be able to speak normally again. “he went deeper – down the stair of echoes... deep down where the dark Men rule.”

 

“Dark Men?” Kíli asked. “Who are they?”

 

Carefully Yurar peered around. “They came long ago, demanding weapons and troops... the Pale One, he feared them. He had to obey, or he would get the black whip. They carved scars into him if he disobeyed. He hated... hated them but obeyed. They came back later, sent him East, to war... he never returned.” Yurar ducked again. “But they are still there... down... down.... in the deeps.”

 

“That's where we have to go,” Kíli said, picking up his glow-crystal again. “Yurar... I will not ask you to join us on our way down below. Hide here until we return...”

 

The old dwarf looked up at Kíli, his face illuminated by the white light of the crystal. “You have his bearing... his eyes...” he whispered. “I will show you the way. Shamed I may be, coward I am not.”

 

There was a change in the ancient dwarf, that Bilbo could almost physically see. He stood straighter, his face no longer fearful, but determined. Did Kíli know what effect he had on him? He did not seem entirely aware, though his face shone with a smile as he thanked Yurar for his aid. 

 

With Yurar guiding them deeper into the bowels of Moria, their route changed considerably, deviating from the straight lined path they would have chosen. Yurar led them through small side-tunnels and narrow stairwells that once might have been meant for servants to use, through low tunnels and two half collapsed halls. Their path was winding, erratic and sometimes Bilbo wondered how many twists and turns they had taken. 

 

Finally they slipped out of an old air shaft, landing on a rusty iron grate embedded in the floor of a dirty room. Kíli peered around, recognizing this place as some part of the works – the old service tunnels serving originally as the cities main air circulations system and later re-used for means of transport, when the big air-shafts had been dug into the sides of the mountain. 

 

Yurar put his gnarled finger to the lips and pointed down through the grate. It allowed them a glance into the room below. Kíli saw three men, two standing, leaning against the walls, both were relaxed, if ready to grab their weapons at any moment, while the third sat on a stone chair. The shine of a few torches illuminated faces of tanned skin and framed by black hair. Two Kíli had never seen before, but the third... he had seen the very same person the day before the battle of the Five Armies. Trakhaine. 

 

The door to the room below opened and a fourth man entered, all but kicking a huge Orc to drop to his knees before Trakhaine. Kíli put his hand over his mouth, when he saw this Orc – it was impossible, but he had seen that huge grey skinned monster before. Bolg. The massive Gundabad orc spoke in the tongue of the Orcs, low and guttural, snarling at Trakhaine and baring his teeth. 

 

“I should have brought Tani,” Trakhaine observed casually. “he speaks twenty-seven Orc dialects and would be delighted to discover a twenty-eight in this hovel.” There was a faint mockery echoing in his voice. “Shrákaan, I get about ever fifth word of his grunting, did he find what we sent him out for?”

 

The man who had brought him in shook his head. “No, he did not, instead he dragged some captive back. He is all rambling about that.” He gave the kneeling Orc a slap with the whip. “Speak clearly.”

 

“What captive?” Trakhaine asked, impatiently. “Great Lord of Night! Does anyone in these parts still know the meaning of discipline?”

 

“Calm down, Trakhaine,” one of the men standing to the side spoke up. “this is not the Empire, there is neither order nor civilization here. Alright, Bolg... what about that captive of yours?”

 

Kíli noticed the scars on Bolg's body, long gashes forming pattern, much like Azog had worn. Or been made wear? He remembered what Yurar had said about that. Bolg began to snarl and speak again, Kíli tried to follow the garbled words, but the last time Bolg had spoken in Westron to him, and now he used one of the Mountain dialects. 

 

“He says that the captive is the dwarf responsible for his failure at Mt. Gundabad twenty years ago,” Shrákaan translated the words. “he caught him no five days away from the … rushing waters... loud waters...?”

 

“Bruinen,” Trakhaine supplied. “And why did he think that dwarf was important?”

 

Again Bolg bellowed and howled. “He says, that only because of that dwarf the ghost of the mountains turned on him at Mt. Gundabad and destroyed him there... he brought the dwarf here for eternal revenge...”

 

Trakhaine barked a laugh. “You lost Mt. Gundabad because you were stupid enough to enrage too many dwarves, beast. And I do not care for your revenges.” He rose, towering over the kneeling Orc. “You had an order – one order precisely what to find for me.” he touched the scars on Bolg's shoulders. “Do you like your adornments? If you fail again I will carve you a matching set.” 

 

With a violent hit to the face Bolg was made crawl from the room. “Let's hope he does better in locating that Warg tribe this time.” Trakhaine sat down again. “what did you do with that dwarf of his?” he asked his men.

 

“Stuffed him down into the forge to work, the old one's getting tired and he seems skilled enough. I then had Bolg stew in the rat's hole for a week, before presenting him to you.”

 

Using the commotion and discussion beginning amongst Trakhaine's men, Yurar led them from the room with the grate and into a narrow tunnel. They climbed out of the dank shaft and came into an empty hallway. Yurar gestured them to follow him, until they reached a heavy but crude door filling a dwarven door-frame. The lock holding the steel transom in place was not of orcish make, Bilbo moved closer to pick it, it was of simple dwarven make, there was no doubt about it. 

 

While Bilbo worked on the lock, Kíli saw Yurar uneasily look forth and back. “You know this place?” he asked softly.

 

Yurar nodded, his hands shaking as he clung to the crude pike he used as a weapon. “Many years... all of us... dragged down here the day our blood reddened the grounds before the gate. Dragged into the deeps and made work... shamed... Orc playthings... slaves.”

 

Fiercely Kíli grasped Yurar's shoulders, feeling the thin frame, with the ropey muscles and hard bones shake under his grip. “Never an Orc-plaything, you fought, Yurar... you ran when you had the chance... you fought. You never let them take your will away...” 

 

“How can... how can you forgive Yurar's weakness? The brave ones died... they died with their King... the shamed... were dragged to the deeps.” 

 

“You were not weak, Yurar,” Kíli could see Yurar's eyes shine with unshed tears, what a nightmare must he have lived through? Captured, broken, enslaved for so long and still fighting back best that he knew how? “Death is easy, Yurar, it is living that needs true courage, going on no matter what.”

 

The lock clacked and Bilbo removed the latch on the door, and the crude wooden doorwing opened to a hall full of cages made from the rough iron bars. Kíli swallowed hard. Rows and rows of cages, chains linking to the wall and the smell... the smell of death and despair still clinging to the place. 

 

“Find your friend,” Yurar said softly. “need to hurry.” 

 

Raising the crystal to see a bit better in the dark hall Kíli and Bilbo followed Yurar into the hall. The cages were standing in three rows to each side. Kíli did not dare count how many there were. They were empty now, bones still lying in some, but most were simply barren, the captives they had held long dead. How many... how many unlucky survivors of the horrible battle by the gates of Moria had been dragged down into this den to live out their lives under the whip of the Orcs? Kíli shuddered at the thought, he could not help those who had died here, but he could help those still captive and he'd not leave anyone in this terrible den. He'd find the dwarf sent to the forge, and the other captives to get them out of here. 

 

They found the very last row of cages, some of these were definitely still in use, if the straw inside and the fresher smells were any indication to go by. Most of them were empty, the captives probably kept at work. But in the corner, Kíli spotted a dark figure sitting in a cage, sagged tiredly against the bars. He hurried towards that cage, squatting down beside the bars. The figure was a young Dunadan, of maybe thirty years, long brown hair, falling matted around a face freshly marked with pain and horrors. Still... in the features of the man he could recognize the boy he had known in Rivendell. “Estel?” he whispered.

 

The young man opened his eyes, startled. “Kíli?” he asked softly. “is... is that really you? How... you came for that dwarf?”

 

“I came for you,” Kíli said. “Bilbo will make short work of that lock and we'll have you out of here soon.”

 

Estel's hands closed around the bars, knuckles standing white. “I... I came for my father. I so hoped he might still be.... he might yet live. It was a trap.” his voice was tired and bitter.

 

“You did what you believed in,” Kíli replied, encouragingly. “had I heard the same about Dari, I'd have come here too, and so would have Thorin.” Sometimes one had to do what one believed in, no matter the scars that would come of it. “That other dwarf you mentioned, who is he?”

 

“Strange you should mention Dari – the old dwarf they keep down in the forge does too.” Estel said his eyes locking with Kíli's. “I thought you came for the new captive, that blond dwarf. He is a good... man, helped me with the work last night.”

 

“A blond dwarf?” Kíli made a notice in his mind that an old captive, most likely another survivor of the battle of Azanulbizar was still held here. “Is his name Fionn by any length of imagination?”

 

“You know him?” 

 

The door of the cage opened and Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Kíli – Bolg will never learn, if it goes like the last time, he may have that 'angry spirit of the Mountain' down on him again.” 

 

TRB

 

“It doesn't make a lick of sense,” Dáin angrily slapped his hand on the table, ignoring the protest in his wounded sword arm. “no one I have a quarrel with would commit such a stupidity and that includes Thorin.”

 

Fíli leaned into the high backed chair, glad he did not have to stand. “Thorin went after the captors immediately, he will bring your son back, I am sure of it.” He said, understanding that Dáin was not just angry, but also mad with worry for his son. “I am surprised you are not blaming us for this desaster.”

 

Dáin shook his head, his grey braids flying. “I may be a stubborn old dwarf but age has not yet eaten my wits. What better way to get the Lines of Durin into a new quarrel? Someone is setting us up to fight amongst ourselves. And Thorin going after my boy... I may hate having to thank him eventually... but is he even aware that a KING does not simply canter off into the next danger? Even old Thrór had more sense than that.”

 

“He was the only one who could go,” Fíli pointed out, he had spent all the day with Dwalin to see to the Mountain's securing and by now could hardly stand at his own two feet. “it is the best chance your son can get.”

 

“Aye, you are not initiated into that, your brother would be.” Dáin sighed. “It would have been his task to go. Where is he anyway. Couldn't he be called back from his important errand?”

 

“If you could magick him halfway across Middle Earth and back here from the deeps of Moria, I'd be more than relieved,” Fíli said dryly, his head was spinning and he wished Dáin would speak a little less loudly. 

 

“Moria?!” Dáin stepped forward, coming to stand before Fíli. “Fíli... lad... does you family have taken a leave from their senses? Both of them crawling through unnamed deeps in a risk too high for anyone to take? Do you have no sense of self-preservation at all?”

 

“And here I thought you didn't care much for Thorin,” Fíli observed, careful to not allow his physical weakness shine through his posture. 

 

Dáin grabbed a chair and sat down heavily. “I am not his friend – being related to him is punishment enough, believe me.” he grumbled. “But that is exactly the kind of crazy, insane, risky thing he loves doing... let's just take a dozen mismatched fighters and his own son and wander across the world to fight a dragon the entire army of Erebor could not stop the first time around! And now... here's the best – he did all on the vision of a healer who can't even hear his brother shout if he forgot to clear his blasted ear-trumpet!”

 

Fíli couldn't help but laugh, which all too soon ended up in a coughing fit, wrecking through him. He felt a strong hand supporting him as the spasm died down. “You aren't any better, lad,” Daín grumbled. “moving between me and that wyrm-paw, getting yourself all sliced up... what were you thinking?”

 

“Protect those who can't protect themselves...”

 

“And all that other honorable creeds Thorin taught you. Too honorable for your own good, until this world rips you apart and swallows you whole... and then someone will expect me to pick up the pieces and continue Durin's Line.” Dáin shook his head heavily. “I wish I could simply hate all three of you, then my old heart wouldn't get a shock every time to commit another stupidity like this.”

 

Fíli stifled a smile, he knew Dáin was a cantankerous old dwarf and would never really like them, but he was not half as bad as he tried to be. “You really sound like you care, _Uncle_ ,” Technically, Dáin was a second cousin once removed, but among dwarves it was polite to turn that into an _Uncle_ or _Aunt_ towards the Elder Generation.

 

Dáin sighed heavily. “Not that your line makes it easy to like them, laddie. You are the worst contradiction in dwarven history – you did away with so many of our traditions, of our ways that I can't even begin to count them, you share a mountain with Menfolk and are friends with Elves,” he made a face. “and then, when I come with a nice, politically reasonable suggestion you get all worked up, because it is dishonorable. And then you go off and risk your lives like they were nothing...” He shook his head again. “Most of the time I do not know what to make of you...”

 

The door of the room was opened at that moment and Dáin rose to his feet. Two guards walked in, bowing swiftly. Before one of them could make a proper announcement a young dwarf maid rushed past them, throwing herself down on her knees. “My Prince... I swear he stole it... he said it would help us... I never knew he meant harm... but he stole it...” tears were streaking her face and her voice was cracked with fear. 

 

Fíli forced himself to stand, ignoring the pain shooting up in his chest and gently helped the girl to stand, he remembered her well. She had intended to marry a dwarf from the Iron Hills whose father had forsaken his duty amongst Thorin's guards when the dragon came. Fíli had spoken to her not long ago and explained her the situation she was putting herself in. “Riga, calm down,” he said gently.

 

The girl stood, shaking, fear still in her eyes. “It is my fault,” she sniffed. “I know that... I should never have allowed it. But...”

 

“Calm,” Fíli could easily see how distraught she was. “What happened?” he guided her to sit in one of the chairs, dismissing the guards with a gesture. 

 

“My fiancé... he came back,” Riga calmed a little, her words steadying. “after you spoke to me and I gave him back his betrothal bead. He said we still had a chance, we could see each other still... that things would be better soon. He had a friend, who would help him unlock a secret passage into the Mountain. But he needed...” Fresh tears shone in her eyes. “He said he needed my access key! I am a lantern warden, I have a key to all parts of the city... and like a fool I gave it to him, three days before the attack.” 

 

Dáin frowned. “Girl, are you saying that one of my people is behind the attack?” he asked, sharply.

 

Riga nodded mutely. “The day of the attack... I saw my betrothed and his thieving friend sneak about Greystone Ward, and later Greystone ward was breached...”

 

“...tying up so many guards that we had little help against the wyrm,” Fíli completed the sentence. “Why did you not come forward then?”

 

“I... I wanted to get the key back first.” Riga said, paling a little more. “I went to our meeting place to demand the key back. But he was not there and... and then I saw Nori, his thieving friend and him sneaking towards the heart of the city. They are planning something again... they can get through all parts of the mountain and at least through half of all doors – I came here at once...”

 

Nori, the name made Fíli's heart clench painfully. Twenty years ago he had tried to help the dwarven rogue and his brother to mend fences in their company, but he had failed and the irrevocable words had severed their paths. What had driven Nori back here? What kind of scheme was he involved in? He called for the guards again. “Raise the alarm, we have an intruder in the city.” 

 

The room around him was spinning, as Fíli's strength gave out, he tried to sit down, but instead he stumbled and darkness enveloped him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note
> 
> If I keep writing at night, unable to sleep from coughing, I must make my unbetaed apology has regular as my beta notice before :(. This chapter is a product of last night, and was posted after a re-read on my part (which is questionable at best, with the temperature I am still running). But the story is so bouncy in my head, I just can't stop...
> 
> I am aware that I am taking some liberties on the First Age/Age of the Trees Mythology here. I am trying to not directly contradict things, more like play with them a bit.


	17. The tunnel at the end of the Light

The walls were swallowing the faint light of the torch, the very stone absorbing eaten away every ray of brightness and the air had taken a cool, lifeless quality that made Elrohir shiver. Never before had he felt a cold that would creep into his bones and lodge there like a creeping weakness slowly invading his body. He did not allow himself to dwell on such sensations, nor on the sickly sweat spreading on his skin, he needed to focus. 

 

The tunnel they were passing was crude, the walls roughly hewn and the floor uneven, he had little doubt that the Orcs had excavated these primitive passages that had nothing in common with the wide dwarven halls they had left behind. Thorin walked ahead of him, slightly ducked to use whatever cover the darkness was providing them with, but without any trepidation, nothing in these deeps seemed to phase the stalwart dwarf. Elrohir did not allow himself to slow them down, not when he could almost sense that Thorin was rushing because they were gaining ground. 

 

The tunnel's mouth opened to a huge cavern again, the rough walls of the Orc tunnel made room for smooth stone walls again. Only... these black stone walls were of polished stone, even, mirroring nothing and darker even than the tunnel at their backs. Like these stones were not swallowing light any more but oozing darkness. Their very presence like a living shadow slowly dripping from the smooth surfaces. A shudder flitted over Elrohir's skin, he had never felt a presence like this before – like the darkness itself was moving, alive and pouring from their very surroundings. 

 

So intense were his feelings that he failed to notice the cavern itself at first. When it finally began to register with him, he saw that the cavern fell steeply before their feet, somewhere deep down he heard the gurgling sounds of water. At least it wasn't lava again! Opposite of them a huge black rock hovered in the darkness – he blinked to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing. Elrohir gasped – it was true: this was no rock pillar or stone platform, but a huge chunk of stone, ripped from the ground and hovering above the abyss before them. 

 

Upon the hovering rock Elrohir could see a ring of stone arches, circling a well – the very well feeding the river beneath them, the waters emerged from a dark stone basin, washing around the twisted Obsidian pillar rising in the middle and then falling through the arches into the deeps. All of this place felt _wrong_ , not just the levitated stone and the waters falling from it, but everything – like the very elements holding this place together were disjointed, wrong and tainted. 

 

The breath hitched in his throat. Up to this moment the very idea of _Arda marred_ had been nothing but a concept to him, a philosophical theory to be discussed with his father but standing here he knew it was frighteningly real. This was not the presence of a darkness, or a Shadow, it was a twisting of the very heart of the world itself, everything turned into a mockery of it's own purpose. 

 

“They've got the lad on the other side,” Thorin's voice cut through his shock. “it is not far to their great fortress – if we rush them now we can free him, before they can try to turn him, or whatever other vile purpose they grabbed him for.” 

 

Elrohir forced himself to ignore the vile feeling, the wrongness of this cavern and assess the situation. A group of deep goblins was lurking by the well on the hovering stone, they had dropped the captive close to the stone rim of the well but were paying him little heed. “If we hurry, we should be able to kill them before more can come.” 

 

Their eyes met, and for the first time Elrohir noticed the painfully focused expression in Thorin's gaze, his companion felt the echoes of this cavern as much as he did, and was fighting them off. His answer was a curt nod and together they headed out onto the bridge – a small stone arch reaching for the hovering island. 

 

The Goblins saw them coming and jumped towards the bridge, several racing up the long stone way. Elrohir drew his sword, stabbing the first of the attackers, not waiting, he whirled around and with a step forward beheaded the next Goblin. There were more coming but killing them became so _easy._ Elrohir whirled through the fight, like one deadly dance, his sword finding a new kill with each strike. A part of his mind was freezing as he fought with the perfection of a butcher, none of the Goblins ever able to reach him. Slaying them was so easy, so underwhelming, like they were just dumb animals trying to escape the inevitable scythe. 

 

When the last Goblin fell, Elrohir was disappointed they gave in so quickly. He looked around, Thorin had killed a good number of them. The dwarf would certainly be a formidable challenge... 

 

Dropping the blade Elrohir balled his hands to fists, trying to escape his own thoughts. How could he be thinking this? Thorin was a friend! Closing his eyes he focused on his memories, the moments of friendship they had shared in the past, jabs and barbs, a few good laughs... and slowly the greedy, cold-blooded feeling began to recede from him. Opening his eyes again, he saw Thorin who was just picking up the blade he had dropped. The dwarf handed him the weapon. “It will pass,” he said gruffly. 

 

“How can you resist it like that?” Elrohir asked in a whisper, the blood-crazed feeling was still there, lurking in the darknees to jump at him again. He had nearly fallen for it and he admired Thorin's strength. 

 

“I don't, but I am familiar with it,” Thorin answered, glad when the elf took his weapon again. He too felt the rush of battle, the will to go on killing, the brutal ease of destruction that this place seeped into the mind of those who dared walk it. “Let us find Dáin's lad and get away from here.”

 

They hastened towards the black well, seeing the waters rise along the Obsidian spire like there was nothing wrong with the black flood rushing upwards, reminded Elrohir again in what kind of place they were walking. Young Thorin lay tied up beside the well, hands and feet both well bundled up. He had been gagged and coughed roughly when Elrohir removed the dirty cloth. “These cretins...!” he spat. “Too stupid to think, too stupid to do something right. They were supposed to grab the _Crown Prince_ but instead took me!” He squirmed and struggled against the bonds, trying to break them.

 

Elrohir helped the young dwarf to sit up, so he could reach the ties that bound the hands, ignoring the vitriolic outbreak. Anger was to be expected, after being dragged through such a den. Thorin had joined them, squatting down beside the well. “Are you injured?” 

 

“No, these little monsters wanted me intact,” The younger dwarf growled and pulled at the bindings, his constant squirming made Elrohir's task to cut the bonds no easier. “can you cut them elf or do you need to be shown how to do that?”

 

Thorin's eyes narrowed, and before Elrohir could react his powerful fist made contact with the younger dwarf's temple, sending him down unconscious. “Thorin! What are you doing?” Elrohir asked sharply. 

 

“Saving him,” the older dwarf replied, his voice quiet. “his mind is already being affected by this place. Better for him to wake up later and not recall it, then to carry a hint of madness with him to the world above. He needs to forget, Elrohir, forget that he was in danger, forget that he was saved, forget that the even knows this danger exists.” 

 

TRB

 

Aragorn still could not believe to see his three unlikely rescuers – two dwarves and a Halfling. While he had not forgotten his childhood friendship with Kíli, the dwarf had written him even a letter now and then, it was hardly something that would have one expect a rescue like this. Especially as he had learned who Kíli was when he grew older. “How bad are the injuries?” Kíli asked, his eyes darting between the entrance of the room and Aragorn.

 

“Nothing to slow me down,” Aragorn replied. “what's the plan?”

 

Kíli turned to the thin dwarf with the pike, standing a few steps away. “Yurar, the other captives are in the forge, is there a way to get in there without alerting the Easterlings?”

 

Aragorn looked at the old dwarf, he was thin, the skin leathery and the white hair in wild disorder. He must have been a captive too, he had heard from the old smiths in the forge that some of the shamed ones had escaped over the years. If this was the only freedom they could expect beyond the chains, Aragorn was not sure if it was such a trade. But there was something in Yurar's eyes, a will and determination that belied his ragged appearance. “Frérin's tunnel... they never found it. Follow me.”

 

Kíli tensed at the name of the tunnel, but Yurar had already taken off, not leading them back through the door of the slave pen but to a side tunnel that left the hall of cages and led them past the latrines. Yurar moved with such a surety, with the familiarity of a long and painful captivity, that Kíli did not question he knew where they were going. They reached another door, standing ajar and passed through what once must have been orc barracks, now empty, still smelling of Orcs, blood and dirt. 

 

At the far end of the barracks Yurar showed them again to one of the old air-shafts, Kíli lifted Bilbo up to reach the entrance, following Yurar and turning around in the entrance of the shaft to provide aid for Estel. “You said we where going to Frérin's tunnel...” he whispered to Yurar as they crawled through the low air-shaft. 

 

“Shouldn't have said,” Yurar whispered. “Name is forbidden... forgive me... did not mean to speak of shame.” He moved all the faster onwards and Kíli had to try hard to keep up. His mind was reeling, though. Frérin had been the name of Thorin's brother, who was counted among the fallen of Aznulbizar. Was it at all possible or likely that his body had not clearly identified before the burning? 

 

Having seen the blood fields outside of Erebor, Kíli knew how many bodies on a battlefield were dismembered and unrecognizable. But Frérin would have worn something that was distinctive enough to recognize even a badly dismembered body, would he? Kíli sighed, all dwarves had two names – their true name, the name Mahal would know them by, a secret word in Khuzdul that was so unique like each new life, only the parents, the child's protector and later the spouse would know this name, the common name of a dwarf was not unique and it was the only name the world would ever know. Even on a grave only the common name would be noted, the true name would be known to the one to whom all dwarves returned in death. Frérin while not a very popular dwarf name, was common enough a name. Kíli would guess that there had been several dwarves named Frérin among the dead. So he could not tell, if the name indicated anything about the fate of an Uncle of whom he knew nothing but a few scarce stories. 

 

Suddenly Yurar stopped, gesturing them to hug the walls. Between them in the floor ran one of the many iron grids that allowed for air to rise into the shaft. But down below two men had halted their steps, one of them was Trakhaine, the other one they had not seen before. The new one and Trakhaine greeted with a warrior's clasp. “Idramár, I'd not have expected to see you in this vile den,” Trakhaine sounded like he was in a good mood. “did my last report not make it to the old city?”

 

Idramár laughed. “No, your report arrived as expected and your assessment of the situation was well received. The High Commander in Minas Morgul still sent me to assist you, because once you have found enough breeding wargs for the pens in Morgai, there will be demands for a greater workforce of Orks. And there's the standing demand of resources to be scrounged up from this lovely hovel.”

 

“You are staying? That's good news.” Trakhaine sounded pleased. “I had hoped to never be sent into the Western Wilderness again and I'd never thought I'd have to say that Eriador became worse a den than it was before the Witch King slaughtered Arnor.” 

 

Idramar laughed. “It never was the Imperial Capital, Trakhaine. But speaking of Arnor, I hear you got us a nice enough pretender?”

 

“Oh him, we have him in the works at the moment, to soften him up a little before we set to convert him. I can't say if his claim is genuine, but he is the son of some slaughtered chieftain or other and believes himself to be descendant of Isildur himself.” 

 

Both Easterling laughed at that. “Really? And you think he is worth the trouble?” Idramar asked, when their laughter had echoed off in the hallways. 

 

“He might be a wilderness rat, but he has some of the High blood, and he has the looks, which is most important. Once he is converted we will need someone of High birth here, though, to teach him the proper Royal behaviour. He has absolutely no posture, if you ask me. I had been thinking of asking for Kadain of Zhigâr-Duran, if he is not too busy keeping the Firelands under control. He'll educate us a proper young warrior Prince within the next five years. Should be a nice shock for Gondor when we knock on their doors.”

 

“I'd prefer to put Ecthelion's head on a pike for all of them to see and make an end to all the Numenorán nonsense of theirs,” Idramár said. “but your plan is better than what the Harad court is cooking up. They hope to have the Corsairs down on Gondor within the decade.”

 

“Harad! When we will have to whip them in line again, the Eye alone knows.” Trakhaine shook his head. “I have to see if Bolg got his lesson this time. He is supposed to find us the right Warg tribes to get the cubs from. You've never met an Orc so extraordinarily stupid, maybe you can come up with a new way to motivate him.” 

 

Still discussing Bolg and his punishments the Easterlings moved off and Kíli let out a slow breath, they were still focused on something else. Beside himself he saw Estel, who had his hand over his mouth like trying to stifle a sound rising in his throat. When the young man felt his glance, he lowered the hand. “Is that what they want with me? Make me a puppet to use for the conquest of Gondor? To destory Gondor's morale?”

 

Kíli looked thoughfully down to where the Easterlings had vanished and recalled what Dwalin had told him about the War of the Twins. The war-master of Erebor was well familiar with the Eastern Empire and their tactics. “The East has been broken, disregarded and shunned for nearly an age,” Kíli said softly, paraphrasing him. “they are now awakening, their day is beginning to dawn and they know it. Beware the storm that will carry them to war.”

 

“You do not sound surprised to find them here, in the halls of the Orcs,” Aragorn pointed out. 

 

“In the halls of my people, you mean.” Kíli corrected. “And no – I am not surprised that they are trying to gain footholds and bases here. The Misty Mountains have rich resources, an asset for any war machine.” He bit back the rest of the words, they would be unjust and unfair. The world had never cared when the dwarven kingdoms of the Misty Mountains had fallen, now the world should not be surprised when the Orc's conquest became an asset for the East. He shook his head, no, this was unworthy thinking, and it was blaming others for things that could not be changed. “Let's move on and find the others.” he said, ending the discussion for now.

 

Yurar led them out of the air shaft and into a regular tunnel soon after, they slipped by a small well of hammers, and deeper down until they came to a dead-end in an abandoned corridor. Yurar pressed his hands against the stone, pushing an invisible door open. “The tunnel,” he whispered. “it leads right under the forge.” 

 

Lightly clasping Yurar's arm with his hand Kíli smiled. “Good work, Yurar. We will not leave any of our people behind this time. He ducked to his knees and crept into the tunnel behind Bilbo, who was first like most of the time. The tunnel was narrow and heavy on them, the air was hot and smelled of hot steel and ash. They crept under the belly of the forge and finally came up behind a similar exit in the far corner of what once had been one of main workshops of the crafter's city. 

 

Kíli balled his hand in a fist – the Orcs had long converted the main well of the crafters into one huge slave-forge, anvils and fires spread out across all the room, smelters and fire racks, enough for about two to three hundred slaves. By now most of the forge was empty, except for one corner where work commenced. Creeping out of the tunnel, Kíli kept in the shadows close to the wall and moved on soft feet towards that part of the forge. He did not know how many guards would be present, but the moment of surprise was nothing he'd waste. 

 

Coming around the corner, he saw that there were only three dwarves working on the anvil. Three... of how many hundred had been dragged into the deep. He had known not many could have survived, but he had hoped... hoped he could bring help to more. Noiselessly Kíli drew his sword, no matter if one or one hundred, he would still free them. 

 

“And here I thought all dwarves were blacksmiths,” an Easterling voice made him take cover in the shadows again, there were only two Easterlings present, and they did not seem to be guards, the way they approached the workers was more the way of an inspection.

 

“If all dwarves were blacksmiths, who would built our cities?” Kíli had to stifle a gasp when he heard a familiar voice speak, he had not seen Fionn since the coronation, but this was his voice beyond any doubt. 

 

“You have more cheek dwarf, than any of your wretched kind. Get to your work or we might present you to Bolg when he finishes his task for us.” One of the Easterlings turned around and drew his sword, having spotted a minuscle movement in the shadows.

 

Kíli advanced, his first attack smashing the blade from the Easterling's hand. The man snarled and shifted to his secondary blade, the weapons clashed. Kíli knew he could not afford a long fight, which would alert the other Easterlings in these tunnels. Ducking under one attack, he spun around, the next attack sinking the sword into his opponent's chest. Yanking it free he saw the second Easterling encumbered by one of the prisoner's chains, that had been thrown around him and Bilbo already finishing off the attack. Aragorn and Yurar had secured the other side, but the short struggle had not been heard. 

 

When Aragorn joined them, he knelt down beside one of the dead guards. “That thief!” he said angrily, picking up the short-sword the man had dropped. 

 

Kíli had not registed the weapon beyond being a blade during the fight. Now that he saw it closer, he recognized the blade, a short-sword of dwarve make, dark steel engraven with runes. “You still had it?” he asked, a little surprised, the blade was only a short-sword for someone of Aragorn's stature. 

 

“It was the gift of a friend, my first sword, I'd never part from it.” Aragorn told him.

 

“Put that chain here, I'll break it.” Turning around Kíli saw Fionn inspecting the foot chain of an old, grey haired dwarf, to see if it could be broken. 

 

“Bilbo will pick the manacles much faster,” he stated, moving up to his cousin. “how do you always manage to end up in Orc hands?” he asked with a soft smile.

 

Fionn's eyes widened. “Kíli? What are you always doing in the worst Orc dens of these Mountains?” Both embraced quickly. 

 

“Freeing you, of course,” Kíli teased as he pulled back. “are there any more captives?”

 

“No, only us three and Aragorn,” Fionn said, pointing to the grey haired dwarf on who's manacles Bilbo was working swiftly. “Baner here and...” the other dwarf who had been working on the anvil in the farthest corner of the room approached them, walking slowly, his chains rattling on the stone floor. He was nearly as tall as Kíli and of slender frame, long dark hair hung loosely over his shoulders, richly streaked with grey. Blue piercing eyes met Kíli's gaze. 

 

“I would not go with you, stranger,” he said, in a deep rich voice, unbroken by years under the whip. “if you could not free all of my people. But these three are all that are left.” 

 

TRB

 

Dís had heard the alarm gongs ringing out again. She had been on her way to the healers, having received word that Fíli had collapsed in exhaustion but then she had thought better of it. Fjalaris would already be on her way to Fíli, and it was her right to be by his side in such times. Dís could help better by returning to the palace and seeing that nothing else went awry. 

 

Striding up the main hall, she noticed two slumped figures near the stairs to the royal quarters. Hastening to the stairs, she found the two guards who usually stood there, dead. Their throats cut, puddles of dark blood staining the floor. Both lay where they had used to stand, neither held a weapon in his cold hand, they had been taken by surprise. Picking up the axe of one of the dead warriors, Dis swung it against the bronze gong by the stairs. With the alarm already raised she did not know who would hear and come, but she needed backup.

 

Without losing one more moment she raced up the stairs, unsurprised to find the guards at the upper end as dead as the ones downstairs. The door to the royal quarters was open, and she saw two dead servants on the carpet in the hallways. She let the bodies be here guide to the attacker, the trail of blood leading her right to Fíli's and Fjalaris rooms. Her heart skipped, the children! Who would go after innocent children? Grasping the axe more firmly, she kicked the door to the twin's room open. 

 

Elá, the nurse lay on the ground, her body nailed with a spear and she saw a figure just bundling up with the boys with ropes. “Leave them alone!” Dís barked.

 

The figure rose and came about. “Dís... or should I say 'Mylady'?” he said mockingly. “I should have expected someone to barge in sooner or later.”

 

“Nori?” Dís asked, puzzled. “What do you think you are doing here?”

 

“Repaying what your family did to my poor brother,” Nori drew his knives. “I would have preferred to skin Kíli myself, but how it will hurt him to see his treasured brother broken by the loss of bis brats?”

 

“You will not take them,” Dís raised the axe and charged at Nori, she would not let him take the children. But her hit missed the target, faster than she could see the rogue had evaded her. She came about, the axe barely missing him this time, Nori stumbling backwards. Pushing forward, Dís brought the blade down in a heavy swing, but again the blade hit only the stone ground of the quarters, Nori was too fast for her.

 

A stab of pain rose from her back, spreading through her body like a wave. Her hands shook, the axe slipped from her grip. She looked down, seeing the silvery tip of a blade protrude from her chest. How had it come there? Her knees buckled and she hit the floor, warm blood spreading under her and seeping into the carpet of the room. Trying to get up she saw Nori move past her, carrying the bundled boys over his shoulder. Her strength failed and she collapsed again.

 

“My Lady!” A voice echoed through the haze, with an effort Dís opened her eyes, recognizing a familiar face with scars running across elven features.

 

“Lachanar... Nori, he has the twins... must save them.”

 

“I'll send for the healers, first, my Lady.” Lachanar's voice sounded like it came from far far away.

 

“No!” Dís forced the word out, pouring all her strength into speaking clearly. “Go after the children, leave me. The children... they are important.” 

 

She could see his face and new her order had been heard, for he nodded curtly. “As you order it, it shall be done.” The elven warrior rose swiftly and sprinted from the room and after Nori.

 

Dís let go of her breath, her chest hurt and she could not feel her feet anymore, but her order... it had been heard. Someone was going to free the children. The cold was creeping closer, and she curled her fingers around the shaft of the axe. The room faded more and more, like an icy mist slowly enveloping her, Dís sank down into the darkness, letting the cold take her. And from beyond the mist she saw a familiar figure, a blond warrior leading a shaggy war-pony. Dís smiled as her heart soared, she was going home. 


	18. Echoes of a distant drum

Elrohir's fingers nearly slipped on the wet stone of the cave wall, he pressed his knee against the rock, steadying himself. The black stone of the steep cave wall was not really wet, but it still felt slippery under his hands, like there was a slime seeping from the very stone. Affirming his hold his fingers had on the small ledge, he lowered his foot to the next protruding edge of stone below. The weight pulling on his shoulder became stronger and he peered down to see Thorin already having reached a safe stand above the waterline. The dwarf had only slightly moved the rope, but it was enough to make Elrohir feel the weight of the bundle gliding down between them.

 

Deciding to not go back the way they had come but climb down the chasm towards the waterline had been Thorin's suggestion and Elrohir trusted his dwarven friend to know the best way out of this place. Having to carry an unconscious dwarf the way back whence they came would have become very difficult, especially getting back across the defensive walls the ancient dwarves had built to stop the Shadow's advance. Loosening the rope over his shoulder, Elrohir guided the “bundle” to slide more towards Thorin, who provided the guidance for young Thorin not to collide with the walls. Once the unconscious dwarf had reached him, Thorin relaxed the rope again, signaling Elrohir it was safe to proceed downwards.

 

Even without the weight tugging on his shoulder Elrohir found it hard to scale the slippery walls. Sometimes it felt like the very stone was alive in a vile manner and tried to make him fall. Carefully he proceeded down, until he reached the ledge Thorin was standing at, he was grateful to have solid ground under his feet again.

 

Looking around he saw that the ledge was nothing more but a jagged tooth of rock reaching out over the waterline – black water were rushing through the chasm, towards a tunnel mouth to their right. The direction felt vaguely south, if Elrohir did trust his faint sense of direction. But the waters – they were black, not just from the darkness, but it was really dark water that swallowed every light falling on it. “This... this looks like the enchanted river in Mirkwood.” He said, knowing the most dangerous obstacle on the Mirkwood road all too well.

 

Thorin pointed to the dark floods. “Wherever the taint rises, the black water is the first sign. I was surprised to see it in the deeps of Mirkwood, though. For there never were any tunnels of the deeps reaching under the Greenwoods. However the taint came to find purchase there, it was not through a broken seal or damaged tunnel.”

 

Elrohir had no doubts in Thorin's words, whatever had brought the taint to Mirkwood, he'd have to ask questions about that at another time. “How can we get onwards? Even elves do not dare to touch the black waters in Mirkwood, and I am loath to try it here.”

 

“My people navigated these deeps for centuries before we were driven out,” Thorin grumbled, casting him a sharp look. “they created ways to even dare venture into the dark tunnels.” He stepped closer to the edge of the waters, his hands resting lightly on the stone just above the dark flood. Elrohir saw how Thorin's face twisted, strained with focus, like he was trying very hard to impose his will on something.

 

On what? Elrohir wondered. On the stone he was touching? It was said that dwarves were able to talk to the stone, but with these befouled rocks it did not seem advisable. Thorin tensed, like something had just lashed him and a fierce growl escaped his throat, like he was snarling at something invisible. Then he suddenly let go of the stone and stumbled backwards. Elrohir caught him, before he could fall. “Are you all right?” he asked, worried.

 

“It was... it gets harder each time to do this,” Thorin gasped, his face ashen and glistening with sweat. “the darkness... it knows our strength erodes over time... and the darkness is patient. Whenever I touch something, it touches me too. But... it could not be avoided.” His eyes pointed out on the waters and when Elrohir turned he saw a shade glide on the water, a boat of stone drifting steadily towards them.

 

“We need to catch it when it drifts by,” Thorin said. “I do not have the strength to call it a second time.”

 

Elrohir nodded, leaving Thorin with the sleeping dwarf they carried and moved to the very rim of the rocks. He found a ragged stone to hold onto and stepped on a ledge below. With only one foot having firm hold, the main purchase he had was his shield-hand clinging to the sharp rock. He felt a cold, sickly breath echo up from the waters. Grasping for him, it was the same vile feeling he had felt when he had fought the deep Goblins. And evil whispering to him that he just could grab the boat and leave the dwarves behind, that he needed no one to find the power hidden in these deeps, that he was above them.

 

_True strength is proven not in the pursuit of power or knowledge, but in overcoming your own desires, my son. True spirit is not proven in combating foes beyond counting, but in knowing when not to fight. True honor is not proven by any code or rules but by doing what I right no matter how insignificant it may seem to be._

Elrohir did not know from whence he heard his father's voice, the instruction he had given him time and again, reminding Elrohir that being an elven warrior was not an accomplishment at all, but only a very small step on the way to becoming something more. The boat was nearly in reach, drifting closer and closer on the waters, Reaching out, Elrohir's hand found the rough stern of the boat, holding the boat's movements. The stone the boat was cut from was warm, and _clean_ without the slippery quality that the stones in the cave had.

 

“Thorin! Jump in!” Elrohir shouted for his friend. He would rely on his elven ability to jump from odd angles to get into the vessel once the dwarves were in.

 

He felt the boat rolled on the black waves when young Thorin was lowered into the boat, Elrohir's arm arched from holding onto the boat and the rocks. He felt like he was being ripped apart by the boat trying to drift away. Thorin jumped into the boat, and while he was careful, the boat rocked harder. Elrohir felt the stern slip from his hands. Planting his feet firmly against the slippery rock, he pushed off hard, jumping like only an elf could and landing in the boat beside Thorin. The boat began to drift faster on the water, shooting forward towards the tunnel's mouth and Elrohir was glad to leave the dark cave and their whispering darkness behind.

 

TRB

 

“Frérin?” Kíli’s voice was choked when he spoke, could it even be possible after all these years? And yet… did he doubt? The dwarrow standing before him, might be thin, ragged and torn from too long a captivity, but his face was still determined and… his features were familiar, Kíli knew these features, these blue eyes – they were Thorin’s, and the dark wild mane only strengthened the impression.

 

The other dwarf shook his head. “Names like that are for the living, for those with honor. You can call me Thirán, if you insist.”

 

Thirán – lost to the Storm, a name a shamed dwarf would chose, but Kíli could perceive nothing broken in Thirán. But he remembered the statement that Thirán would not leave if his people could not be rescued. Maybe he had chosen to share their perceived shame, forsaking his name just like they had done. A loud jangle announced that Bilbo had unlocked Baner’s manacles and now moved on to Fionn. Kili squatted down to check Thirán’s manacles; he had picked Orc locks before. “Only three of your people are left?” he inquired. “Or are others stuck in different parts of the works?”

 

“No, some escaped when Azog failed to return… but most died long ago. Baner and me where the last, until your friend was thrown down here a few days ago.” Thirán replied, he too squatted down, impatiently plucking the picks from Kíli’s hands. “Who is it that came to rescue us?”

 

“Kíli,” the rest of the words stuck in Kíli’s throat when he saw how deftly Thirán picked the lock of his own manacles, freeing himself much faster than even Bilbo could. “You… you could have fled…” he stumbled over the words. Someone so quick with the manacles could probably have escaped from the cages and made it away before the Orcs even noticed.

 

“Not all of my people could have escaped, their fate was mine.” Thirán replied simply as the manacle came away. He rose and grabbed his hammer, his eyes surveying Kíli for a moment. “I knew a child of your name once – a son of the storm and had high hopes for him. Well met, storm-child.”

 

Aragorn came sneaking back from the door. “There are no guards in the hall outside, only one standing further down towards the main stairwell. But it is only a matter of time that they will notice what happened here.”

 

Recalling all he knew of this part of Moria, all the map had provided Kíli nodded. “There should be a shaft leading up some levels in a dead end of the hall.”

 

“It was blocked up after an escape.” Thirán said. “at least the part that led upwards. The way down to twelfth deep and beyond is still open.”

 

“Then that’s where we go.” Kíli decided, noticing that Thirán too had a solid knowledge of Moria.

 

The tunnel at the end of the small corridor was truly blocked against the climb upwards, but the dark shaft still fell into the deeps. “Bilbo, go ahead and scout, we leave the tunnel at twelfth deep if possible. But I’d prefer not to walk into a trap.” Kíli told the Hobbit, who nodded vigorously and climbed into the steep shaft without any hesitation. The others followed with only Kíli and Thirán being the last. For a moment it looked like each of them might insist on being the last to go, but then Thirán went without any debate and Kíli was the last to enter the steep dark tunnel into unknown deeps.

 

The shaft seemed to fall for an eternity, though Bilbo knew his senses were playing tricks on him. These long falling shafts of the dwarves were prone to make one feel like climbing into the burning heart of the world itself. In truth he had been counting the clamps he had used to climb down, to approximate the depth they went into. Twenty clamps were usually a level, two hundred a deep, and four deeps made a depth, luckily Erebor had been built according to Moria measurements and thus he could rely on his experience there to count how deep they were going.

 

It was getting warmer the deeper they came and the clammy air of the shaft became dry and quite comfortable. Too comfortable for his tastes, he did not like too warm caves – because the warmth had to come from somewhere, and if it wasn’t a solid dwarven smeltery heating up the place, it had to be a less friendly source of heat. He paid more attention to the air as they descended deeper, but he smelled neither smoke, nor gas, nor anything else that might indicate they were headed towards a burning deep. Bilbo knew that Kíli and the other dwarves would smell mine gas or firedamp at once and warn them. Still, he felt he should be as careful as he had been taught to be by his friends. Bofur had taught Bilbo about ancient mines and their hazards, about gases, structural damage and other dangers underground and while Bilbo felt he’d never achieve the natural affinity dwarves had with their mountains, he had learned a good deal about the danger signs.

 

A cool breeze of air touched his face when he came closer to the exit of the tunnel. Leaning on the side of the hole that led out his deft fingers found the stone pattern on the rim. Twelfth deep, they were in the correct place. Carefully he peered out of the shaft, darkness and silence greeted him. Deep down in the long lost levels Dwarrowdelf was again the lonely, empty city they had encountered before. “Looks clear,” he whispered up. “I will scout ahead to make sure there’s no surprises.”

 

It was a dangerous thing to swing out of the tunnel and into a level which he could not really see, nor quite tell if there truly was no danger ahead. His hand went to his neck where a silver-steel necklace rested under his chainmail. He still had his talisman, though it had been some time since he had last used it. Bilbo had gotten quite good at sneaking and evading dangers, and even at fighting, so he had needed the protection of full invisibility rarely, but sometimes it was the best thing to have. Again he peered out into the dark, there was no real sign of danger, no voices, no noises, no echoes. Still – they were with several freed captives and guiding them out without paying a surprise visit to all Orcs under this part of the mountains would be wise.

 

Slipping the ring on his finger, Bilbo hopped off the rim of the hole and landed on the floor below. Peering about he could not see much, and he headed off to the left where the hall should connect to a main tunnel. Like the smaller tunnel, the main hall was empty, no noises or echoes ahead. Bilbo checked the main hall a bit further and after he was sure they were alone in this part of the fallen city, he headed back, where he saw the whole group having emerged from the shaft. Removing the Ring Bilbo became visible again. “I think we are alone down here,” he said to Kíli. “there are neither voices nor any traces around.”

 

“Good,” Kíli said with a curt nod. “the twelfth deep should have a connection to the stairs of Kings, that can bring us back to the surface.”

 

“But which means crossing the crypts.” Thirán pointed out. “There should be a different way.”

 

Kíli shook his head. “The crypts are between the ninth and eleventh hall of the twelfth deep – by the time we get there, we all will be exhausted and in need of sleep. We can hide there before heading on.”

 

Thirán crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You would use the crypts of our old Kings to _sleep?_ To hide? They are sacred grounds and…”

 

“… and the dead will not mind our presence there. They are at peace in Mahal’s halls and will not begrudge the living the protection.” Kíli said firmly. “The care for the dead must never come before the care for the living.” With that he turned and headed out to lead the others towards their intended destination.

 

Aragorn watched Kíli as he moved ahead of them through the darkness, he did not quite understand what the dwarven argument had been about. The dwarves often forgot that he was there and then they spoke in their own tongue, which he did not understand. Still, he was glad they were moving again. The huge empty darkness seemed to cling to them like a sticky mantle as they went. He could hardly tell where they were going, tunnels, halls and bridges exchanged with new tunnels and stone archways. Moria, the greatest grave of this age, silently whispering around them, sending shivers down his spine. With each step he felt like he was moving through the lands of the dead themselves. He wished there was more light than just the meager stone Kíli was using to guide their way, and that there was some sound beyond the steps of their boots on the stone floor. But aside of that there was only the silence of Moria, the darkness stretching to all sides and the lingering feeling to be buried miles and miles under stone.

 

Hours and hours passed in hard walking, sometimes they found a tunnel blocked and Kíli had to lead them on a detour, but he always brought them back to the main route before long. Eventually they came to a wide hall filled with stone statues, nine to each side. Stone warriors, depicting dwarves with their weapons, standing like an eternal guard, but guarding what Aragorn could not say. “What is this place?” he asked softly.

 

“These are the Eternal Guardians,” Bilbo replied, catching up to him. “they are usually cut after the picture of the greatest warriors of Dwarven Memory, Alberic Stonebow, Frérin Dragonsbane, Durin II, and such… they are ones memorized in the guardians. Stone guardians like this usually stand before the Tazhagh-ter-dûr, the City of the Dead, the crypts. Dwarven crypts usually have several entrances, like the Stairs of Remembrance, Stairs of Silence… but this here looks like a direct gate, no stairwell. So it has to be Gate of Reflection.”

 

Thirán arched an eyebrow at Kíli as they approached the door, he had taken point with Kíli without any discussion. “Your friend is quite the scholar, it seems.” He observed. “Though he is no dwarrow.”

 

“He is one of us in any way that counts,” Kíli replied, placing his hand on the stone as did Thirán, the door silently opened, allowing them to enter the crypts.

 

Bilbo could have spent the next decade in here and would not have regretted it. These crypts were magnificent, and entirely untouched. The Orcs had never reached the graves of the ancient dwarven Kings. Unfortunately he had no time to look around or study them in depth. Kíli led them through the main hall of the crypts swiftly until they reached the foot of the stairs of silence. “We can rest here for a few hours, then we press on.” He said.

 

They had settled down on the stairs and Kíli and Bilbo shared what water and cram they had. It was not much, but better than nothing. “How did you get captured?” Kíli asked Fionn.

 

“Rú asked me to deliver a letter, from himself and his brother to Rivendell.” Fionn said, leaning back against the wall. “Rú felt it might be best if I showed up there first, no one knows how his presence might be taken, after all. Though he would be close by in case things went badly. Unfortunately some Orcs had already stirred up the place and the Rivendell guard was fighting them. I got spotted by two wargs and had my hands full – which led right into an encounter with Bolg.”

 

“Who remembered the last time but seems to have forgotten that it was your presence that gained him so much trouble.” Kíli mused. “He really is slow to learn.” His eyes strayed again to Thirán who had been speaking to Baner and Yuran, convincing them it was safe enough to rest here.

 

“When we are out of here, will you come home with us? To Erebor?” he asked. Kíli could still feel the distance the three kept to them, their perceived shamed status had cut deeply into them. But bringing them back home was what he intended to do. They deserved to go home, to find their people again.

 

“Erebor?” Thirán asked softly. “So… the dragon was truly defeated?”

 

“Aye,” Kíli reached for Thirán’s shoulder. “the Mountain is again ours. Had we known you were here, we’d have come for you sooner.”

 

“What of our families?” Yurar asked, his voice rough. “I would not have mine burdened with me being shamed. Better be dead and stay in the mines…”

 

Kíli sighed, dwarves were a stubborn and prideful people, sometimes they were more prideful than even the elves and that was saying something. “You were not shamed,” he stated firmly. “you never served the Orcs out of your own volition, nor did you seek alliance with their kind. Our people do not consider those shamed who were forced into chains – and I know no family in Erebor who wouldn’t be happy to have one of their own back.” His eyes went pointedly to Thirán, challenging him.

 

“And sometimes what returns from the deeps is not the same that went down,” Thirán replied, a strange expression in his eyes. “I would like to believe you, storm-child, but until I hear the same from the King under the Mountain, your word stand unproven.”

 

Kíli wanted to reply something but a sound interrupted him, a deep rolling echo ran through the deeps, repeating once, twice and again. The deep, dark voice of a battle drum – Doom! It rang out, rolling through the corridors. Doom! It echoed back and more drums began to answer. Drums, drums were ringing out from the deep and then Kíli felt it – a dread, a deep, dark dread sinking into his bones.

 

TRB

 

Lachanar raced after the receding figure at the end of the hallway. He knew it was useless to hope for other guards to catch up, Nori was halfway to an exit already. The elf sprinted into another hallway, jumped up to a ledge and used one of the grand surface windows to get out. Maybe he could cut Nori off before the dwarf realized what he was doing.

 

But when he came outside, he saw Nori already racing away from the Mountain. How could he move so fast? Lachanar jumped down and followed the dwarf across the open grounds towards the ruins of Dale. Lachanar knew these grounds from years of scouting them for traces of the taint and he made the best of his knowledge, taking the shortest path possible to catch up to Nori. But when he reached him inside the broken ruins, he saw the dwarf lower his bundle down into one of the sewer shafts and jump after.

 

The sewers, Lachanar though alarmed, if Nori brought them down there, the chance of them getting exposed to the taint grew from a chance to very likely. Swiftly the elf followed them down into the sewer tunnels. It was a race like none other, Lachanar knew these tunnels, he did not need to stop or think to find his way, but Nori ran with a speed that was either unnatural or fuelled by a great fear. The latter Lachanar could well understand. Where Thorin here, the dwarf King would be after the thief himself, to rescue the boys and no one in his right mind wanted an angry Thorin Oakenshield on his trail.

 

He saw Nori race down the long stairwell and towards the bridge with the door. For a moment hope burned brightly in the elven warrior – the bridge was a dead end, the gate was shut, it had been sealed by Thorin and would only open for Durin’s blood. But when he came down the stairwell, he saw the gate standing ajar – the seal had been broken. Cursing in a tongue he spoke rarely these days, Lachanar jumped over the last barrier and hurried through the gate. Nori was ahead of him, lowering the captured children down a cliff on a rope. When the rope was through his hands, the dwarf wanted to climb after, but Lachanar had reached him, using the flat side of his blade to knock the dwarf out. Nori collapsed silently, his body sagging down on the stone.

 

But down below the cliff Lachanar saw a boat drift away on black waters – with the captured children and another dark figure on board. Soon they would be out of reach. The elf looked around – the place felt familiar, eerily like something he had seen before. Thorin had given him the crystal that would unlock his memories, but now he had no time to even try. He needed to act now, jumping down the cliff, he left the unconscious dwarf behind and raced along the narrow ledge by the water. His opponent might think a boat drifting slowly was a good idea to outrun an elf, he’d teach him differently.

 

TRB

 

“They took our boys!” Fjalaris was not in tears, nor was she breaking down, quite the contrary, he anger was inflamed. She had been the one to find Dís body, having raced back to the main palace when the alarm gongs had rung up there. The bladesmith’s daughter was holding onto her discipline, but once she knew who had committed such an atrocity, she would grab her hammer and teach them a lesson about dwarven mothers and their young. Dáin knew that well enough; he had a healthy respect for the anger of a mother dwarf. He had accompanied Fjalaris, feeling it was his duty. If some of his own people were involved in this matter, it was a question of honor to lend aid to those hurt. They were his kin after all.

 

“They also tried to get Tóla,” Fíli’s voice was pressed, he was pale as a ghost and Dáin wondered how the boy was standing at all. “but Skadi… she did so well, she hid Tóla in Thorin’s desk, then lured the attacker away.”

 

“Is she alright?” Fjalaris asked, her anger reined in for the moment.

 

“They both are. Once she was safe, Skadi returned to retrieve Tóla and get her to the next guard post.” Fíli told her. “The guards and Dwalin are hunting for the intruder. Nori… if Riga’s confession is genuine.”

 

“You should sit down, lad.Does Óin even know you are up and about?” Dáin asked gruffly. He was sure the healer was hunting for his patient as they spoke.

 

“I can’t lie down and rest, Dáin.” Fíli said, leaning against the wall to ease the strain on his body. “Nori infiltrated the Mountain, killed a dozen guards, took our children… murdered my mother… I failed in protecting the Mountain, and I cannot go to sleep while we are still in danger.”

 

Dís, murdered… Dáin could scarcely believe it. Dwarves were not above the occasional murder or political assassination, it did happen, though most murders were either honor related or happened in the heat of an argument. What few outsiders knew that the murder of a dwarf woman carried the double penalty than did killing a male dwarf and it was not because womenfolk was unable to defend themselves, most male dwarves were careful not to get under their hammers – but it was because female dwarves were so few, and depriving the community of any of them was a serious offense. Only the lowest of the low would do that – Dáin had known convicted murderers, dwarrow who killed ten or more of their kind, who would blanch at the idea of killing a female dwarf. What kind of scoundrel fell so far? “You are no use to your people if you collapse, Fíli.” He pointed out.

 

“Much as I hate it, he is speaking sense for a change,” Dwalin entered the room, the war-master looked grim. “we are extending the search beyond the Mountain, my Prince. One of the servants said he saw Lachanar chase after Nori near the eastern postern, we are following up on that.”

 

Fíli nodded, he felt numb, and there was a small part of him that wondered how he could continue to function when his two little boys had been dragged away by a hateful, angry dwarf. Duty, he gave himself the answer. He could not collapse, much as he wanted to. Thorin had trusted him to protect the mountain, and this task was not yet done. “Dwalin, while the chase is under way outside, we need to make sure this can’t happen again. The stone doors need changed keys and we best have the people sweep their own quarters for everyone who is not supposed to be there.”

 

Dwalin nodded in agreement. “I will take care of that. What about Riga and her confession? She is as much a traitor as Nori or that good-for-nothing fiancé of hers.”

 

“For now we hold her, to find who else is involved in this.” Fíli tried to speak steadily. “But I will not announce any degrees of guilt until we know the full truth of what happened, or the outcome.” His boys… he did not dare think it. Where were they now? Were they alive? He knew he must not go to pieces, he had to trust others to find them, but in his heart Fíli feared something terrible was about to happen.


	19. A flight from Darkness into the Night

Doom! The echo of the drum rolled through the dark crypts again and the feeling of horror in Kíli’s chest tightened. He jumped to his feet. “We need to go,” he could not tell why, but the dread he felt was warning enough.

 

“Durin’s Bane… he is coming,” Thirán’s eyes narrowed; he had ducked like a cat under a stone ready to jump and run or fight. While his face was pale, his hands were steady as they held his hammer.

 

Kíli closed his eyes, not allowing his fear to take him. Durin’s Bane – the horror looming in the deeps of Moria, of course it would have felt Durin’s blood walk these halls and would come after them. “The stairs, we need to get out of here.”

 

They ran up the Stairs of Silence that ended in the Halls of Mourning. Following all that he had remembered from the map, Kíli led the others across the hall, through another tunnel and up towards the hall that he knew to connect to the stairs of the Kings. The silence of Moria was deafening around them, like a sticky blanket spreading over them, swallowing up even the sound of their steps as they hastened through dark halls and over wide bridges.

 

Kíli was nearly relieved when he heard the shrieks of the Orcs in the tunnel before them. Their angry voices a reminder that they were not dead yet. He drew his sword while he ran, the tunnel before them should lead right into the stairwell from whence he could hear the Orc shrieks. Three came running at him when he was halfway through the tunnel, he stabbed the first, Thirán’s hammer smashing the second, and the third was killed by them together.

 

“They are running from something,” Thirán said roughly. “they are afraid… the stairs might not be safe.”

 

Listening to the dread still welling up inside him, Kíli shook his head. “Fear is behind us, Thirán – not before us yet.” New shrieks rose from the stairs ahead of them, panicked Orc cries, some so high pitched they rang in the dwarf’s ears. Ducking out under the low ceiling of the tunnel, Kíli peered into the huge dark shaft that held the stairs of Kings. A large quadratic shaft of darkness that was traversed by the greatest stairwell ever built.

 

He did not see direct danger, but he saw two Orcs fall off the stairs above, howling as they plummeted into the deeps. Craning his neck he saw that a fight was ensuing on the stairs above them.

 

“They are here…” Fionn’s voice echoed relief as much as worry. 

 

And suddenly Kíli understood who might give the Orcs the fright of their lives. Not hesitating any longer he led the others out on the huge free climbing stairs and they began to run upwards. When they reached the first turn of the huge stairwell, Kíli saw two figures fighting off the Orcs – one was familiar, an elven warrior he had met before, the other he did not know, but the Orcs remaining on the stairs were being decimated before he could even reach them. The two fighters cutting through them, with a speed and skill that put many an accomplished warrior to shame.

 

Russandol turned to them, sword raised and ready to fight again, but he lowered the blade after only a moment. “Kíli – should I be surprised to find you in trouble, or relieved that you have a penchant to find Fionn whenever you are in these Mountains?” There was an echo of grim humor in his voice.

 

Kíli shook his head, Russandol was right, each time they had met some battle, trouble or big Orc had been afoot. “It is worse this time, I fear,” he said, continuing to climb the stairs. “do you hear the drums?”

 

The call of the drums was rolling through the silence again, rising from the deeps and echoing up through the ancient stairwell. Russandol frowned. “Orc drums – they are calling their host.”

 

“They are calling for the terror of the deeps,” Kíli said, realising that Russandol might not know much on how Moria had fallen, or on how Durin’s bane had driven the dwarves from these halls. But this was not the time to explain, they needed to escape before the drums and he whom they called could reach them. Together they were running upwards, the long stairwell winding through the darkness, climbing higher and higher. Kíli’s hopes rose when they reached the first deep, here they had to cross the Hall of Reception, to reach the stairs that would lead further up, or they could turn East and race the halls to reach the gate.

 

The Hall of Reception was one of the formal halls of Moria – built at a time when Durin I had reconciled the warring kingdoms of the dwarves, it was was one of the oldest parts of the ancient city. Kíli had stopped beside the stairs, letting the others rush past him, making sure they had not lost one of them. Bilbo was there, reliable as always with Estel beside him, Thirán slightly pushed Baner forward, Yurar had their backs, Fionn and Russandol’s dark haired friend were there as well, and Russandol himself had done the same as Kíli. They followed the others to cross the halls. “Is the way to the Eastern gate still open?” Russandol asked Kíli.

 

Kíli wondered if Russandol had known Moria when Durin I or Durin II had ruled here – had he come here in the great days of the first age? “I hope so,” he replied, but his words were cut short by a deep, ferocious growl drowning out the drums. With the deep angry growl rose a light on the walls – bright flaming light that seemed to emerge from nowhere.

 

“Durin’s Bane…” Kíli whispered, when he felt the fear wash over him, threatening to drown him. Durin’s Bane would know Durin’s blood walked Moria’s halls and he would extract a price in blood.

 

“That… that is what you call Durin’s Bane?” Russandol’s voice was icy, calm and serene as a glacier under the light of a lone moon. His eyes were on the flames that flickered on the walls.

 

“Aye,” a part of Kíli was still able to function, to not cower in fear, though he had no idea how it was possible. “you know him?”

 

“Only his kind! To the stairs – they are our best chance!” They changed direction, instead rushing towards the path that would lead them back to the Eastern gate, they raced to the stairs leading further up. A roar rose behind them, as they began to fly up the stairs, the group ahead, Russandol and Kíli the last.

 

“Why the stairs?” Kíli tried to understand the decision, he trusted the elven warrior but if he ever had to deal with such danger on his own, he wanted to understand why the stairs were better than the halls.

 

“The enemy is large and heavy,” Russandol turned his head, glancing back, as firelight spread along the walls below them in the deep shaft. “these stairs will not carry him – the shaft is too narrow – in the halls he could bring his full advantage to bear.”

 

How they managed to scramble up the long stairs Kíli would never be able to tell, the fear behind them a rising flood eating away at mind and soul, as they ran. He tried to focus, to push past it, nothing had ever reduced him to such fear, to such a mind-wrenching dread. He stumbled and felt Fionn help him up, never stopping his movements. When had Fionn joined them at the end of the group?

 

“Through here!” Thirán’s voice cut through the black fear swirling around them. They had reached the topmost end of the stairs of Kings, and Thirán had opened a gate of stone for them. Kíli’s heart jumped, if Thirán could command the stone gates like this, he had to be of Durin’s blood beyond the shadow of a doubt.

 

He saw the others scramble to slip through the narrow passageway when he felt a hot wind brush past him, a whirl of hot air coming from below. He turned around to see a large winged creature – a shadow moving in the darkness surrounded by flame rise from the abyss below them. Black wings carrying him up, fiery eyes piercing down on him. Kíli saw the blade form in the hand of the creature, a blade of fire – the blade that had taken the last King of Khazad-Dûm. The sword came down like a fiery wing of steel striking from darkened skies and suddenly Kíli was pushed aside, landing hard on the stairs, as the fiery sword was parried by Fallen Star. “Run, Kíli! I cannot hold him off for long!” Russandol’s voice cut through the haze of fear.

 

The last steps towards the gap in the wall were the hardest he ever took – he heard the fighting behind him, and each step seemed slower than the first. When he reached the narrow doorway he felt a strong hand pulling him through, turning around he saw that Russandol was behind him, dodging an attack by the airborne creature. Kíli’s senses returned – how had he been frozen up like this? The moment Russandol was through the gate, Kíli placed his hands against the stone, whispering the ancient words in Khuzdul to seal the passage. The stones closed between them and their fiery pursuer. Nothing but a roar of anger echoed from the other side of the wall.

 

Shaking Kíli squatted down, his feet unable to support him, his head was spinning. He felt a strong hand pull him up. “We need to leave,” Russandol said. “he may try to smash even this door if we linger.”

 

Kíli nodded slowly, his mind clear again. “We should be in one of the watchtowers, the exit cannot be far.” Passing the other dwarves – most of them were as affected as Kíli had been, he found the hidden stone door leading out of the small room they were crowded in, grateful that the map had provided him with the knowledge on how to open them. Dwarven doors may be invisible when closed, but their masters knew how to open them. The stone rumbled and the door opened, it was only a narrow exit, just enough for one warrior to fit through. The watchtowers did not have need for broad doors. Cold wind swept inside, an icy fresh air greeting them. Climbing out through the narrow door, Kíli’s feet found purchase in ankle deep snow and ice. Under the sinking sun in the west lay the wide icy fields of Zirak-Zigil’s icy peak, the shadows of Caradhras and Fanuidhol, they stood on the very height of the Misty Mountains, on the top of the world.

 

TRB

 

Lachanar was sprinting along the dark stream, he could see the boat drifting towards the tunnel’s mouth. Jumping from rock to rock along the shore he had been catching up with the boat swiftly. But once it was on the main stream, his chances to reach the boat became less. Using the last long band of rock he raced towards the boat, using the sprint to gather the speed he needed and jumped. He could see the dark figure on the boat rise, only moments before he landed on the side of the stone vessel that rocked under the sudden impact.

 

The figure – a twisted dwarven figure, drew a long knife. “Too late, Elf. The price will be paid, one way or another.” He spoke in a gurgling, guttural voice.

 

There was little to guess what he intended to do, Lachanar’s own dagger catching the first strike of the dwarf towards the children, their blades screeching under the impact. One of the dwarf’s knives dropped, cutting the back of Anvari’s hand, before getting stuck in the boat’s frame. The deep dwarf cursed and drew another, Lachanar kicking the attack away from the boys, he could see how they both were making use of the knife stuck beside them to cut their bindings, freeing themselves, But they needed time. This time Lachanar attacked the dwarf, to keep him busy. Their fight caused the boat to roll on the water as it drifted out into the main channel. Taking a risk on the vessel’s already compromised stability, Lachanar moved forward to get between the captured boys and their captor. The blade slashed down again, and again he managed to push it away before it could harm the boys who had nearly freed themselves.

 

A harsh crack ripped through their ears the same moment the boat hit something, Lachanar saw the stone ground split open. Dropping his knives he grabbed the boys, before they could be touched by the black water. The boat had hit a rock in the main channel. Jumping away from the sinking vessel, he managed to land on a narrow rock, just above the waterline. He could hardly stand on the slippery rock, even with his elven sense of balance. The two children clung to him; he did not need to feel their shaking little frames to know they were afraid.

 

Looking around his eyes found another rock, only a little larger than the one he was stood on, the jump was risky, but Lachanar managed to land it without any of them getting in contact with the water. Behind them he heard a last, vile curse as the boat sank, dragging the dwarf down into the black flood.

 

His eyes straying across the black flooding waters, Lachanar saw no other rocks, no way to get off the river, away from the black flood. Forcing himself to calm down, he studied their surroundings. There had to be a way to escape, or at least get the children out of here safely.

 

A movement on the water startled him, and he saw another boat drifting towards them at a much higher velocity. More attackers? He could not be sure, not in this place, not with the darkness creeping through these tunnels.

 

“Lachanar!”

 

The Elf hardly dared to believe it when he heard Thorin’s voice. The boat was drifting closer and he could see the dwarven King and Elrohir aboard. He waited for the boat to come closer, he could not guess how much of a chance Thorin had to actually steer the boat, so he had to estimate when the vessel would be closest. Holding onto the two boys tightly, Lachanar jumped, his feet only barely hitting the rim of the stone vessel. Elrohir grabbed him and pulled them down into the boat, before it could flail too much.

 

Lachanar’s knees hit the hard bottom of the boat and for a moment all his strength gave out, when he realised that he truly had managed to jump them to the boat. He slowly let go of his firm hold on the boys, who scrambled to seek safety with Thorin. “What happened?” The dwarf king asked, his question directed at Lachanar.

 

Finding words to convey what had happened seemed beyond Lachanar, how to even tell what had transpired in the mad hours behind him. How long was it since he had raced from Dís’ side to reach the boys? He did not know. When the words came out, they were the bare bones of the events, a report as condensed as a soldier could make it.

 

Thorin listened grimly, not interrupting Lachanar, nor asking for more details. “Nori,” he finally said, when Lachanar’s report was ended. “We will deal with him, once we are back up at the exit. You did well, Lachanar… especially…”

 

“Especially with my memories of this place gone?” Lachanar asked, he knew that he should know this river and the dark tunnels, he had been here before, his soul remembered even when his mind did not.

 

“You did not break the crystal?” Thorin asked, surprised. He had left that option for Lachanar, in case of emergency. Part of him had hoped that Lachanar would break the crystal either way, while their friendship had endured beyond Lachanar forgetting their journey through the deeps, Thorin had always felt that something had gone from his friend since that day.

 

“There was no time for that, Nori already had a head-start.” Lachanar’s eyes went past Thorin to the rocky shore the boat was reaching. It was exactly the point where he had begun his chase after the twins. How could he ever have forgotten that water down here had no direction? That it flowed both ways and did not flow all the same? No, this was not the time to discuss this. Thorin had much worse on his shoulders.

 

Elrohir had silently watched the exchange, not commenting or intruding on it. That a secret like this needed protection, and that the best protection was people not knowing, was all too logical to him. What Thorin had said about the younger dwarf needing to forget, echoed that sentiment clearly and while he had known Lachanar had been friends with Thorin before the fall of the Mountain, he was surprised how deep the friendship must have gone. Or maybe he was not surprised, the Elven mind was remarkably resilient and able to resist many an enchantment. Lachanar’s choices in later years reflected the depth of a friendship he might have partially forgotten.

 

They had climbed up the cliff, finding the exit, where Dwalin and his troops were just bundling up Nori. “Let’s see how brave he is, when he is encouraged to talk,” the War Master grumbled.

 

“Have him thrown into the deepest cell we have,” Thorin told him. “and have some of your warriors carry young Thorin.”

 

Dwalin followed the order, not even trying to relieve Thorin of the weight of the two small dwarflings he had carried up the cliff. His warriors lifted captive Nori and the unconscious young Thorin through the door and back towards the stairs. “Move ahead, Dwalin, we will be with you soon.” Dwalin wanted to protest but one glance at Thorin was enough to silence him, he gestured his fighters to move out, leaving the small group alone before the gate.

 

Thorin exhaled slowly, glad that his friend did not force the issue or ask questions. “I need to re-seal these doors,” he told the two elves. “take the boys and wait by the stairs.” He had made his decision, he trusted Elrohir and Lachanar with the knowledge, he would not try to make them forget what they had seen.

 

Elrohir and Lachanar sat down on the stairs, each of them carrying once of the dwarflings. Anvari and Asutri had not liked being separated from Thorin. Asutri was still argumentative about it, and Elrohir understood about every fifth word of the angry Khuzdul complaints the dwarfling launched at him.

 

Lachanar who understood the entire fearful rant of the boy, did not translate it in full to Elrohir. Anvari had cuddled up to him, the dark head resting against his chest, the body of the small dwarfling shaking. At first Lachanar assumed it was simply the shock and fear of all that had happened, wrapping his arms around the boy, he gently tried to console him. But the shakes became worse. He saw Anvari’s lips move, the boy was whispering something. _Thêk tal._ That was all his ears could pick up.

 

_It hurts._

 

Carefully Lachanar pushed the dark streaks of hair from Anvari’s face, to find the skin pale, blue veins shimmering under it, the skin was cold and clammy, the boy’s breathing shallow and hitching. “Elrohir, something is wrong with Anvari,” he turned to his companion, knowing that contrary to himself, Elrohir was a healer.

 

Elrohir set Asutri down, asking him to sit down with them, and then turned to Anvari, taking him from Lachanar. The first, if quick examination showed him symptoms not unlike a high fever, but there were signs of something beyond fever. Anvari’s eyes showed dark traces and his body temperature was too low for fever. At first he checked the cut on the back of Anvari’s hand, a poisoned wound might explain the state the boy was in. But the cut was clean and did not look inflamed.

 

_Shal thrêk tar, nizgûn tar. Khemel cal nu._

 

Elrohir cast a look at Lachanar. “I only get something about hurting and drinking…” He had learned some Khuzdul from his father but it was not much, certainly not enough to understand a hurting child, that did not seem to speak Westron as of yet.

 

“He said that the dark man made him drink something and it is hurting inside – like he is on fire,” Lachanar translated, trying to stay calm. “Could it be a poison, Elrohir?”

 

“Poison?” Thorin asked as had reached them, the dwarven King looked tired, exhausted, his face ashen, if from sealing the gate or the sudden ill news was not to be told.

 

“I do not know yet,” Elrohir rose, still holding the boy. “we need to bring him somewhere safe. I will try to slow the progress of whatever is ailing him, until then.”

 

Thorin had seen Elrohir’s healing skills before, he knew Elves could slow poisons and keep people alive that were on the verge of death, if someone could give Anvari the time they needed it was the elven warrior. “Let us hurry.”

 

TRB

 

Navigating from the highest slopes of Zirakzigil towards some safer grounds had proved exhausting. After three hours it was dark and they had all found shelter in a small rock cave, shielding them from the ice. Kíli had lit a dwarven fire inside the cave to keep them warm, glad to be able to sit down and rest. Most of the others too were dozing, or trying to sleep. For the first time in days Kíli allowed himself to relax and to listen to the echoes of the bond in his mind. He and Fíli had shared a bond of souls ever since the retaking of Erebor, ever since the healing spell that had dissolved the Arkenstone, but they had learned to wall up the bond in moments of stress, to focus on their respective tasks and not to be distracted too much. It had not been an easy skill to acquire; they both loathed separation and usually longed to keep the bond open for the other. But they both had enough discipline to keep their own focus and block out the bond when necessary.

 

Now he reached into his own mind and slowly let go of the barrier, reaching for his brother, a thousand leagues away. For a moment he felt the calming echo of Fíli’s presence, the steady light that was his brother, then the bond opened suddenly full and a wave of pain branded over him. Biting down on his fist, Kíli tried to stifle a groan when he felt the intense pain wrecking through his brother, he closed his eyes to reach out for him.

 

“Kíli…” Aragorn had woken, and was squatting down opposite of him. “are you injured?”

 

“No.” Kíli panted, trying to somehow control the pain, without blocking Fíli out again. Impressions and emotions flickered through him, and he tried to reach out to Fíli and comfort him. “I am fine, Estel.”

 

“You do not look fine,” Aragorn insisted. “you are shaking, your skin is cold and your pupils dilated…”

 

“To the Gate of Night with Elves and their healers!” Kíli snapped, “What I feel is my brother. He is in pain, Aragorn – not physical pain but pain of the soul. It is drowning him – he is keening in his mind. Something terrible has happened…” A fresh wave of nausea washed over him, and Kíli had to try and regain to control of the bond, as the pain cut into him like a blade. “Anvari… something happened to the children.”

 

“We need to get back,” Bilbo too had woken and hurried to Kíli’s side, in fact there was no one asleep in the cave any more.

 

“It’s a five weeks ride back to the Mountain, even if we had the horses.” Kíli reminded him. “Oh Fíli… don’t give up yet…” He could feel the keen desperation echo into him.

 

“Something happened to your family?” Rú’s question was a relief, for the Elf’s voice was steady, his calm helping Kíli to focus more than the compassion from his friends.

 

“Fíli’s son, Anvari… he was hurt… Fíli is desperate...” Kíli shook his head, the bond did not allow to read the other’s mind, the fact alone that he was sensing so many emotions told him, that he read that many details, how badly his brother was feeling, how keen the desperation.

 

Rú turned to the other elf. “Cáno, stay with them – make Kíli dampen the bond if it overwhelms him,” he said, before turning back to Kíli. “Hold onto the bond, try to calm your brother – tell him you will be with him shortly.”

 

Incredulously Kíli looked up at him. “How?”

 

“Leave that to me. See that you are ready to move in another hour or so.” With that Russandol left the cave, walking out onto the ice.

 

Kíli closed his eyes, trying to comfort Fíli, to somehow convey he was coming home. He did not know if he could help at all, but that did not mean he’d not try. He did not know how much time passed, but there was a slow steadying in the bond, Fíli was still hurting, still mad with worry, but he was focusing better, their feelings supporting each other. Steps approached him from the outside, heavy dwarven steps. “Kíli, you better come, the same goes for the others.” Fionn said, extending a hand to help Kíli up.

 

“You know what Russandol is doing?” Kíli asked, trying to distract himself from the pain and worry for just a moment.

 

Fionn smiled slightly. “When we crossed the Mountains the second time, we came across an Eagle trapped in a Goblin trap and Rú decided to free him. I had no idea then, but a long time ago Rú was saved by the King of Eagles and in turn aided the Eagles when they were in dire need of help. He had been a friend of their kind a long time ago – and it seems the Eagles of the Misty Mountains are of the same tribe. We spent three fun years weeding out their worst enemies and helping their kind.”

 

“Eagles?” Bilbo hurried out beside them. “Maybe they are the same Eagles Gandalf asked for aid when we needed to escape Azog.”

 

Kíli remembered seeing the Eagles fly off from afar on the day they had come out of the Goblin dens. Fíli had later told him of the flight to Carrock. When they came out of the cave, Kíli saw a huge Eagle – the largest he had ever seen, perched on the ice, seemingly in conversation with Russandol. A whole flight of eagles was swirling above their heads. Russandol waved him to come closer. “Gilsael and his people have agreed to carry you home – but they are loath to risk settlements with their arrows and crossbows,” he said to Kíli. “they will approach the Mountain by night, if you can name a safe place for them to land.”

 

“Winter’s Howe,” Kíli said. “it being out of arrow range has been a constant cramp in Dwalin’s defense plannings.” He looked around. “But what of you? We can’t just leave you here.”

 

Russandol arched an eyebrow. “Gilsael will bring us home as well – the darkness under this Mountain was stirred so strongly that our leaving is the best we can do.” Their eyes met. “If you still consider following the path of the arcane smith, find me on Himling Island once your family is safe.”

 

The invitation came as a surprise to Kíli and he inclined his head. “Thank you, Russandol – for all your help, for saving my life…” he was grateful for the Elf’s generous will to aid them.

 

“Don’t waste any time on speeches,” Russandol stepped back and the next moment one Eagle swooped down, grabbing Kíli. The others followed, and within moments they all had been lifted off the ground and the Eagles flew East, into the night.

 

TRB

 

Aragorn watched the Eagles swoop away, their group parting, some flying East, others West. He was the only one who had asked them to leave him on the ground. His destination did not lie in Erebor, nor at the Western coast. He knew that in his heart, as surely as he knew his own name. While the horrors of the last days were still fresh in his mind, there was something else that he could not let slip from his mind: all that he had heard in the deeps when the Easterlings talked. Harad was hoping to have the Corsairs down on Gondor within the decade, Gondor most likely unaware of the danger. Aragorn sighed, all he could do was to try and prevent that danger – he did not yet know how but he knew he had to try.

 

He had also learned another bitter lesson in the mines – his legacy, the secret Elrond had told him about on his twentieth birthday, was a powerful, dangerous thing and all too easily misused. He had nearly let it fall into the hands of those who would harm his people with it. He closed his eyes, as their voices echoed in his mind. No, the secret must remain hidden, for no one to find and for no one to abuse it. The man who would go to Gondor to safe her would have to be a stranger, without a link to their powerful past. He would need a new name for that – a name no one linked with Arathorn of the House of Isildur.

 

His eyes fell to the sword in his hands. A dwarven short sword – his first blade. So well did he remember the day he had received it, twenty years ago. For a moment he considered borrowing Boromir’s name for his guise, but no – it would be a poor sign of friendship to use his name for a mantle of disguise that might turn to good or ill. Then, something else came to his mind – their goodbye. Boromir had given him the sword, and as the door closed behind Aragorn, he had heard Boromir say. “You are going to need it, Thorongil.” To this day Aragorn did not know why the warrior had called him that – Eagle of the Star, but it was a good name. The nickname a friend had given him. Thorongil. That’s what he’d call himself from now on.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	20. What comes with dawn

Grateful that Kíli was for the Eagles help, he did not like the flight at all, being a creature of Earth and Stone he felt uneasy being lifted high into the air without the safe feeling of Arda’s bones under his feet. After hours and hours of flight he began to feel like he was being cut off from the only safe shell he knew. The deprivation was nothing new to dwarves, it was the reason why the detested travelling on ships and disliked spending time high up in trees – but Kíli had never known how extreme it was.

 

“Steady,” Thirán’s voice rumbled beside him. Each of the eagles carried two riders and Thirán had been landed on the same as Kíli. “it will pass.”

 

Kíli turned his head, his hands still on the Eagle’s plumage. “How can you stand it?” he asked, surprised to see Thirán much calmer, nearly unfazed by the height. The other dwarf even dared to peer down to the land that the Eagles were carrying them across.

 

Thirán shook his head, pushing his dark mane back behind his shoulders. “I have spent a century in the deep stone, Kíli. Captive or no, it gave me a strength that you lack. You show all the signs of a surface dwarf, all at ease above grounds but your bond to the deep stone is so weak that you begin to feel it after only a few hours of deprivation. And you were born above ground.”

 

Kíli ducked his head. “You would know that,” he said softly, wondering if Thirán was willing to speak of it at all. Bur Frérin would have known of Ida – had he known of her fate too?

 

“I do, Storm-child, I was there during that night when you were born. But even if I had forgotten, I would know – you have the bright eyes of one born under the open skies.” Thirán reached for Kíli’s shoulder, nudging him to look up. “I cannot be whom you want me to be, Storm-child, not with the reception that awaits us at the Mountain. We were captured… made Orc slaves… there’s no greater shame that can happen to a dwarrow.”

 

Kíli’s heart jumped, Thirán wanted to come home… he wanted to be who he truly was, though he had chosen to share the shame of his comrades, share their fate under the Orc whip. Kili could only admire the strength that this decision had taken. “Frérin,” he chose to use the true name of the dwarrow with him. “in times past this may have been so, when we could afford such nonsense. Our people have gone through too much to still care – too many of us have been in Orc hands and escaped, to still count it against the honor of anyone. Even our traditional cousins in the Iron Hills don’t hold with that any longer.”

 

“Please… do not use that name,” Thirán had tensed, his cold eyes averting from Kíli’s gaze. “it may be forgivable for our people, the Exile might have changed that but… for my family…”

 

“Mahal, you truly are family, you are certainly stubborn enough for it!” Kíli exclaimed. Actually forgetting about his fear of height, he removed one hand from the Eagle’s back, swiftly loosening the buckles that secured his armor on the left shoulder, to free his left arm of the chainmail, pushing it down enough to bare his shoulder blade. The cold wind brushing against his skin. “Look at my shoulder,” he commanded the other dwarf, who had watched him with a confused expression.

 

Calming himself Kíli turned to Thirán, so he could see his shoulderblade, where Kíli still had the Goblin’s brand and the crude letterers carved into his skin. “It is well known that I bear this mark, Thirán,” Kíli said honestly, the rumors about the Orc-plaything had forced him to be open with what had transpired during their stint in Goblin-Town. “and excepting one big idiot no one ever held it against me.” He felt Thirán’s hand touching the mark and made himself not flinch.

 

“Your people know of this and they still respect you?” Thirán’s voice echoed disbelief… and hope. “Maybe… maybe we truly have changed.”

 

Kíli shrugged, using the movement to push the armor back into place and secure it. He then turned around. “We,” he said with a smile. “we have changed, we have learned a lot while we wandered Middle-Earth, and I dare say we are better for it. Our family will be happy to see you again… to have you back.”

 

Thirán looked down, towards the ground deep below. “I want to believe you, Storm-child… and I will trust you in this. But until your family is safe, until you found out what is haunting your… brother, it is not the time for such revelations. And you will wait to tell them until such a time that they are safe.”

 

“You have my word,” Kíli agreed, seeing that it was probably the wisest course of action. The Eagles swung higher as they flew into the approaching night. Deep down Wilderland passed by, they would be at the Mountain soon.

 

TRB

 

Fjalaris stood at the top end of the bed, trying to be still and not disturb the healers best that she could. She had long lost any sense for how many hours had passed since Thorin and the others had returned from the deeps, carrying little Anvari with them. Directly after their arrival at the Mountain Anvari had nearly passed from them in a surge of such excruciating pain that Fjalaris had prayed to Mahal to let her share the pain of her son, to somehow ease his suffering. Anvari had not died, much due to Elrohir’s healing presence, but it had only been the beginning of a long struggle.

 

Óin, who had been summoned at once, was as puzzled by the poisoning as was Elrohir. Over the hours passing, Fjalaris could see how stabilizing Anvari had begun to take a toll on the elf, much as he tried to hide it and as the day slowly crept by she had feared more and more that the elf would run out of strength and his failing strength would also doom Anvari. But now that a new night fell, she could see Anvari stabilizing a little. His small hands were clutched around a deep blue stone – an elf-stone, she assumed, for it had been Elrohir who had decided to try the stone after several other things had failed. The stone glowed softly in Anvari’s hands and since the boy held the blue jewel, he was stable, not getting worse but he was still not improving.

 

“I don’t get what is happening,” Óin grumbled. “it is like his own body is fighting against us trying to heal him.” The old dwarf closed an ancient leather-bound tome with a loud thud. “There is no poison ever written about that has such effects. Your stone is the only thing to have any effect so far.”

 

Elrohir ran his hand through his hair, to push a few streaks of sweat-damp hair out of his face. “I was hesitant to use it – it is a sea-stone, usually dwarves would react aversely to it.”

 

Óin scratched his beard. “Elemental poisoning? I have read of such things but never seen an actual case…”

 

Fjalaris drowned out his voice, unable to tear her eyes away from the small figure on the bed, Anvari’s breathing was steady, but pained and he looked so small and pale, forlorn between the fur blankets. She felt strong arms curl around her as Fíli drew her closer into a hug, and for the first time peered away from Anvari. Tolá, their daughter was safe with her nurse Skadi, but Asutri had been witness to his brother’s state and she had not seen him after. Looking around she saw the small blond boy cuddled into Thorin’s lap. The King sat on the other side of the room, he had rarely left since they had returned, and Asutri had retreated to his granduncle’s protection.

 

With a sigh Fjalaris closed her eyes and leaned her head against Fíli’s shoulder. When her betrothal to Fíli had become known, several well-meaning dwarrows had taken it upon themselves to warn her, Durin’s House was stubborn and prideful, they had said. Their possessiveness was legendary and they tended to have a very tight hold on those that belonged to them. Fjalaris had known all these facts were at least partially true – she had grown up close enough to Fíli and Kíli to know it. When they had been dwarfling she had been _their_ friend and no someone else’s, and she had seen that trait in Thorin, when it came to both boys. Not that anyone in their right mind would have said a word. But upon her marriage to Fíli she had learned the warmer side of the infamous possessiveness. There had never been a moment of doubt that she belonged to the family, she had been taken in with open arms and warm hearts. And it showed even stronger in moments like this – in spite of being King, of certainly wanting to go after those who attacked the Mountain, Thorin had chosen to be here, to be with the family in their hour of fear, they were _his_ family and he stood with them.

 

“Kíli is coming,” Fíli whispered into her ear. “he is close…”

 

Opening her eyes, Fjalaris found her gaze locked with her husband’s bright blue eyes. “How? He was a long journey away, in Khazad-dûm?” she asked, not doubting Fíli’s words.

 

“I don’t know – he does not like their way of travelling, not one bit. But I know he is very close – he is coming to help.” Fíli gently kissed her hair. “We should meet him by the gate, before he hears the tale from Dwalin.”

 

There was sense in his words, Fjalaris shuddered what version of the tale Kíli would hear from Dwalin – the bald warrior did not forgive himself that he had allowed the boys being snatched away under his nose, and she was sure that Bladvila, the Captain of the Palace Guard felt the same. “You are right,” she said. “do you think we can leave Anvari?”

 

“I will stay with him,” Thorin had risen from his chair, where little Asutri lay asleep, curled into Thorin’s fur cloak. “if Bilbo is with Kíli have him start research right away, maybe he can find something in the library the others overlooked.”

 

Fjalaris walked with Fíli down towards the gate, she could tell that her husband was sensing Kíli’s approach – she was very familiar with the signs. When she had married Fíli she had known Kíli would have a strong presence in their lives, they had been all but inseparable during their childhood. And even now that they had seemingly grown apart a bit, they shared a bond that would echo what the other felt. Fíli had told Fjalaris of the bond prior to their marriage and she was one of the very very few dwarrows alive who knew how it had come to pass. She had been a little apprehensive at first – for it meant that she would be marrying a third of Kíli as well, or so it felt. But it had worked out wonderfully, in Kíli she had gained a brother and protector, a friend she could talk to about her worries, or even about family frustrations. And if Fíli still tended to gravitate towards his brother when he sought consolation or aid, it was only natural.

 

They had reached the bottom of the long stairs leading to the gauntlet when Fjalaris saw the familiar armored figure with the dark coat and black bow on his back, followed by Bilbo and several more dwarves, who hung back a little. Kíli hastened up the remaining stairs, reaching them within a moment. Their greeting was a three-sided hug, Kíli wrapping an arm around each of them. Fjalaris let herself drawn into the strong hug, glad Kíli had come home. Sometimes he seemed like an older brother who would be there to protect them, and maybe it was true – he was the one who always had the crazy ideas, the strange plans that just so worked and saved the day. He had a penchant for that, he was the one with the dragonsbane seal after all.

 

“How bad is it?” Kíli asked softly, not letting go of their hug.

 

“You better come with us,” Fíli replied. “it does not look good. Elrohir is at his Quenya’s end, and Óin is ready to speak of witchcraft. Maybe Bilbo can find something in the library that the other’s overlooked?”

 

Bilbo, who had come up the stairs nodded earnestly. “I am on my way, Fíli. Do not give up yet, we’ll find something to help.” With that he hurried off towards the library.

 

On their way back to the Palace Fjalaris told Kíli what had transpired, she tried to break the news of Dís murder gently, Dís had been Kíli’s mother as much as Fíli’s, and she knew that in spite their infrequent quarrels Kíli had loved his mother very much. Kíli took it calmer than she had expected the pain in his eyes visible for one moment, then he locked it away. “Mahal guide her home,” he said, his voice a little rough.

 

“Kíli, if you need time…” Fíli sensed the fresh anguish in their unguarded bond, he felt that Kíli hated the thought that he had been a thousand leagues away while his mother died alone.

 

“No,” Kíli’s voice was all steady again, the warrior-prince speaking now. “the mourning for the dead must never take precedence before the care for the living. Dís would want us to take care of your sons, not wail for her departure. Has someone interrogated Nori about the poison?”

 

“It is in Dwalin’s hands – and as far as he can tell Nori does not know what poison his partner the deep dwarf was intending to use on the children.” Fíli replied.

 

They returned to the sick room and Kíli squatted down beside Anvari’s bed, gently pushing some of the sweat-damp dark streaks of his wild mane from the boy’s face. Anvari’s eyes strayed to Kíli, and the boy’s breathing became more uneven. “Uncle Kíli… you have two Ravens on your shoulders.” He whispered.

 

Fjalaris looked alarmed at Óin. “Is he feverish again? He was lucid when we left.” She asked, worry rising again in her.

 

The old dwarf largely ignored her and went back to the boy’s bed, to check his state. “So Kíli has Ravens with him, young Master Anvari?” he asked in his gruff voice. “that’s not a nice thing to bring inside, don’t you think.”

 

“They are there, one black, one white… and there is stars… they look like a circlet – it’s girly.” Anvari coughed his body convulsing. Gently Kíli helped steady him until the fit passed and Anvari fell asleep.

 

 “It was not a hallucination, I think,” Óin frowned deeply. “but he is too young to manifest the flame or see signs…”

 

“Dragonsblood!” Kíli jumped to his feet. “I knew what you said felt familiar somehow. Remember Fíli what Fionn said about the children affected by the Dragon’s blood? That they saw things which were not there and died from a pain that ate them up from the inside, if they did not go entirely crazy?”

 

“But the dragon has been dead for twenty years,” Thorin had stepped closer, the slightest chance of a trace, of something that could be done, startling him into action. “how should a deep dwarf have gotten his blood in the first place?”

 

“We have got it the wrong way ‘round, we always had,” Kíli said. “it’s like a tinker’s riddle seen from the wrong end. Not the dragon’s blood caused the problem in the first place – it was the taint, Thorin. It always was – the dragon too must have been tainted, and when his blood dripped into the cistern of the Reach, the taint affected Fionn and all the others. And Anvari now too – he was exposed to the taint, probably in a much purer form than the children in the Reach were.”

 

“Bloodfire,” Elrohir’s eyes widened. “my father once told me that this was the name it was known by during the First Age – if someone was tainted by the pure Essence of the Shadow, the pure malevolence of Melkor. It would kill mostly, but some survived. He said there was a way to heal exposure, but it is a secret that was lost with the end of the First Age, as it was not needed again.”

 

“So… the cure was lost?” Fjalaris heart shattered, when she heard the words announcing her son’s death sentence.

 

“No, not entirely,” Kíli’s eyes sparkled. “I know someone who still knows the cure, or something akin to it – he saved the children of the Reach, and he and his brother may know what to do for Anvari. Only…” His voice trailed off.

 

“Only what?” Elrohir asked. “Maedhros wandered away from this Mountain, who knows where he might be now?”

 

“Himling Island,” Kíli replied. “and that’s practically on the other side of the world. Ten weeks, if I can change horses on the way and run into no trouble along the way. How much can you stabilize Anvari?”

 

“You want to take the boy there?” Óin thundered. “he is too weak to be moved, let along go on a ride across half of Middle-Earth.” The old healer stood before bed, pointing his ear-trumpet accusingly at Kíli.

 

“Even a letter with a Raven will take two weeks at the least,” Kíli said, trying to be reasonable. “that makes four weeks before we can have a response – provided the cure is something that does not need Russandol here in person. Which is four lost weeks, weeks Anvari may not have. Taking him there is the shortest way to get him towards a cure.”

 

“You are very sure that Maedhros can help you – and that he actually will help you.” Elrohir said, he was not someone to be judgmental towards the Fëanorean Prince, his father had said much good about him too, but he still would be careful to hope – let alone demand – aid from him.

 

“I hope he will help,” Kíli replied. “he is a good man, and if he decides to set me twelve tasks or nine trials for it – fine. I’ll do whatever it takes to get help for Anvari.”

 

Elrohir looked at Kíli and suddenly felt much reminded of Thorin – Kíli meant what he said, and he’d go to any length to accomplish it. Much like his father had gone back to the Mountain, with only a few followers to defeat a dragon. This family had the trait to choose difficult tasks and then see them through. And… Kíli’s words made sense, Maedhros had proven to have some knowledge of a similar problem – the dragon blood poisoning, the Light alone knew what other knowledge he may possess. “I think there is a way to stabilize Anvari for a few short weeks – I already did consider it, to give Óin and I more time to search for a cure.”

 

Thorin turned to Fíli and Fjalaris. “Anvari is your son,” he said, his strong hands gently touching their shoulders. “the ultimate decision lies with you.”

 

Fjalaris breath nearly choked her. For all his vaunted arrogance and pride, Thorin was a generous soul when it counted most. He was the Lord of their House and could have decided without even hearing them. Instead he placed the decision in their hands, respecting their wishes. “Give us a moment, please,” Fíli gently led Fjalaris away from the others, so they could speak alone.

 

In the lone corner of the room, outside of immediate earshot and as private as they could get without getting out of sight of their son, Fíli gently clasped Fjalaris’ shoulders with his hands. “I am torn,” he admitted, with the baffling honesty he always had towards her. “keeping Anvari here means we can take care of him, but with less chances of truly helping him. Sending him off has the best chance for him to be healed – but I shudder at the thought of not being with him.”

 

Fjalaris returned the gesture, holding her husband. She knew he wanted to go with their son, to protect him, and all the same he had another son and a daughter here, who needed him just as much. Who would need both their parents when one of their siblings was torn from them, to maybe never return. “Much as I want to go with Anvari, I know we cannot leave Asutri and Tolá behind,” she said softly. “many a family made that mistake, neglecting their healthy children in favor of the sickly one. They all need us, they all deserve our attention and love.” She sighed. “And I trust your brother – Kíli would protect Anvari with his own life, if anyone will find a way to help him, it is your dark brother.”

 

“You often call him that,” Fíli said softly. “and I still cannot see why you call him dark.”

 

Fjalaris shook her head. “It is not meant ill, Fíli,” she did not explain further, knowing Fíli might never see it, nor accept such words. “What do you think?”

 

Fíli leaned in and their foreheads touched. “I think that you are wise – if there is anyone I would entrust with the life of our son, it would be my brother. He cares for Anvari like he was his own.”

 

“Your family always had a talent with the wonderful Uncles,” Fjalaris whispered. “then it is decided. We will ask Kíli to bring Anvari to Himling Island, and to seek healing for him.” She knew they’d not need to really ask, Kíli would do it, if they needed and wanted it.

 

TRB

 

“Someone should tell you that your Sindarin writing is atrocious,” Bilbo stood beside the low library table and frowned at the attempted letter. “you may read enough elven to poke your nose into books about arcane smithing, but you never practiced writing, let alone writing a formal letter. Why Thorin would allow you to learn the basics of Sindarin and not insist you learn the formalities is beyond me.”

 

Kíli put aside the steel-nibbled pen and pushed the parchment aside, he had begun the letter once he had known Fíli’s decision, while Elrohir was still preparing Anvari for the journey ahead. “For the one reason you mentioned: a lot of books on arcane crafting are in Elven, and thus we learn it to read them. But no self-respecting dwarf will easily admit, we speak the elven tongues.”

 

Bilbo sat down beside him, taking a fresh scroll of parchment and snatching pen and inkwell from Kíli. “As you are writing to one of the ancient High Elves, their own tongue might be appropriate…” he pointed out, straightening the parchment.

 

_Kíli, Firstborn of the Line of Durin, to Maedhros, Prince of the Line of Fëanor_

 

“… oh my, that would still be his title, would it?” Bilbo thoughtfully scratched his chin. “After a few ages titles really do get tricky.” Frowning he returned to the rest of formalities that belonged at the head of a formal letter. “Now… what do you want to tell him?”

 

“That my nephew Anvari was poisoned by something that looks like the Dragon Blood, and that Elrohir refers to as “Bloodfire” and that I am humbly asking for his aid. Whatever price he can think up in return is his – I’ll even go and search for those dratted jewels his family misplaced two ages ago.”

 

Bilbo had a hard time to not roll his eyes. “I think I may have to phrase this a little bit more diplomatically.” He observed. He knew well that Kíli could phrase things better if he had to, although he always preferred the straightforward warrior’s speech. However as agitated as Kíli was in this moment, Bilbo did not expect any formality left in him. His pen flew over the parchment, penning the letter as politely as possible, without twisting Kíli’s words into something he had never said.

 

When he was finished he folded the parchment tightly, it needed to be small to be carried by a Raven. Wordlessly he handed it to Kíli for sealing, he could tell that his friend was locking away all his feelings, his fears. Bilbo knew Kíli too well to not notice, whenever Kíli retreated entirely into the façade of the warrior-prince he was hiding something, and much as he might be able to will his face into an impassive mask, much reminiscent to his father’s, his eyes would always give him away. The black eyes were too warm, too caring, too deep to not mirror the turmoil he was feeling.

 

After Kíli had sealed the letter, they went up the stairs towards the upper levels of the Mountain, where there were large windows overlooking the Mountain. Bilbo hung back, while he was always fascinated when Kíli called for a Raven, he also knew that it was nothing that bore strangers all too close. The huge Raven – one of the large Erebor Raven’s – perched on Kíli’s hand, taking the message and the request to carry it to Fionn, Bilbo could never discern how Kíli actually spoke to them. To his ears it sounded like Kíli was just speaking very low in Khuzdul, but Bilbo was unable to understand one word of it.

 

The Raven flew off, his dark wings spreading against the still dark western skies. Dawn was maybe an hour away. “Bilbo,” Kíli’s eyes were still trailing the Raven’s path. “I do not know how quickly I will leave, but I think…”

 

“You think it will be soon, and someone has to explain to Thorin about Yurar and his friends,” Bilbo finished the line, he had known him for long enough to easily guess what was on his mind. “Do not worry, once things have calmed down, I will see to that. For now they are with Bofur and he has good enough sense to not make fuss when things are tense.”

 

Kíli turned around to face him. “Thank you, Bilbo – I hate to leave like that but…”

 

“Kíli,” Bilbo stepped up to him. “Anvari’s life depends on you, you cannot burden yourself with other things right now. Leave the other tasks to those who still have their hands free.” He felt a short, nearly bone-crushing hug, and hugged Kíli back, sometimes his friend forgot that Bilbo hated hugs when the dwarf in question was in full armor. But then… he had gotten used to that a long time ago. “Now go – you need to prepare for your journey.”

 

TRB

 

“Anvari is as stable as he is going to be,” Elrohir stood in the hallway outside of the sick room when he spoke to Kíli. “that means he is still fragile and has little strength to give. Your Uncle found a fittingly short necklace for the sea-stone, so it can rest against his heart. He must not be separated from the stone, it is what has been the most effective on keeping him stable.”

 

“It is an elf-stone, is it?” Kíli asked.

 

“In a way, it came from the sea and still holds an echo of her.” Elrohir explained. “If Anvari gets worse, you can try to give him some of this,” with that he handed Kíli a small vial. “two drops on some water, it will help him to get over a fit. But be careful with it, too much of the substance can be poisonous as well.”

 

“How did we end up with you rescuing the next generation of my family?” Kíli asked, remembering how he and Elrohir had met years ago.

 

The Elf smiled a little. “I would prefer to not lose any of my friends before I absolutely have to,” he said warmly. “you have your horse ready?”

 

“Dwalin is still at the stables – Snowblaze has yet to return home. He will eventually, dirty, lousy and absolutely happy.” Snowblaze was the fastest horse in the stables, and Dwalin was already scouting for one of similar quality. Not many dwarves loved fast horses like Kíli did.

 

“Too much time wasted, take my battle horse.” Elrohir said.

 

“Elrohir, that’s very generous but unnecessary…” Kíli began to protest.

 

“Stop that nonsense, Kíli,” Elrohir said, already going down towards the gate where the stables were located. “This is an elven battle horse, they are the fastest runners there are in this world, they are immortal and they never tire – no other horse can bring you to the western seas as fast as this horse.”

 

“If he will carry me at all,” Kíli pointed out, he knew that Elrohir’s grey stallion had been a test of skill and temper to the stable hands whenever the Elf had visited the Mountain.

 

“He will, if I am tell to.” Elrohir turned around on the stairs. “Meet me at the gauntlet gate when you are ready to leave.”

 

TRB

 

Entering the sick room Kíli found his brother and Fjalaris waiting for him, they both stepped closer to swiftly hug him. “I do not need to tell you to take good care of my son,” Fjalaris said softly. “because I know you will. And while my heart is bleeding to send him away like this, I will sleep better knowing he is with you.”

 

Fíli simply leaned close to have their foreheads touch. The brothers did not need words to convey what was in their hearts. When they released their hug, Fíli and Fjalaris led Kíli to the bed where Anvari was sitting. He was dressed in his small leather travelling coat with the dark blue hood down at his shoulders, his feet were enveloped by small boots, he much looked like a small version of many a travelling dwarf. He still was pale and his wild black mane only emphasized that.

 

Kíli squatted down before him, to be on eye level with him. “We are going on a long journey together, Anvari.” He said, extending his hands to the boy.

 

Anvari smiled shyly at him, clasping his hands with his smaller ones. “Are we going to ride your horse?”

 

Kíli rose, keeping a hold on the hand as he lifted the boy up, to carry him. “No, but Elrohir will allow us to ride his warhorse – it is a magical elven horse, you know.”

 

Fíli smiled when he saw how Anvari got comfortable on his Uncle arm, snuggling up to him. Their family had sometimes been short on fathers, but they always had managed to have a great Uncle at least. The next best thing or maybe the best, Anvari would be fine with Kíli. Together they went down the long flights of stairs and to the gauntlet gate. Thorin joined them on the way, carrying little Asutri, who clung to him, upset that his brother was being sent away.

 

Elrohir awaited them by the gate, standing beside his huge grey stallion. He watched Kíli and Anvari approach, accompanied by their family. Having siblings himself, Elrohir could imagine what the family must feel, the worry and the burden the trust of his brother put on Kíli’s shoulders and how hard it must be for Fíli and his wife to remain behind, with nothing but the hope that Kíli would find the cure for their son.

 

Waiting for Kíli and Anvari to come closer, Elrohir spoke softly to Greystorm, his horse, he would carry them. The stallion had never failed him and would bring them safely across half the world. The horse stood utterly still when Kíli lifted Anvari on his back and mounted behind. Elrohir handed him the reins. “I will send word to my father and brother in Imladris, Kíli, they will aid you in any way they can, to continue your journey. Ride fast.”

 

The heavy gates opened and the horse sped through the dark gateway, hooves thundering on the hard stone floor and raced into the grey dawn of a new day. Elrohir’s eyes followed the horse’s running shape as it vanished into the dim light. _A path open before you,_ he whispered. _The woods part for you to pass them, the rocks give way to your journey, no obstacle between you and the end of your road, nothing shall hinder your passing through the land._


	21. Carry me on the wings of storm

Like an arrow flying from the bowstring Greystorm raced west, hooves thundering on the stone road that led towards the Men-i-Naugrim. Keeping a tight hold on Anvari, Kíli let the horse run. The heather of the healing desolation shone under the noonday sun, and the horse did not slow down, Birchvalley lake they passed in the late afternoon, white trees and the coppery shining pond greeting them and flying by swiftly. By sundown they rode past the Dragon’s Den – a vale that had been one of Smaug’s favorite meal places. Night fell, with a silvery crescent moon rising in the east, they rode on through the burrows and towards Axebreaker ridge. Slowly Kíli began to understand that Greystorm truly did not show any signs of tiring, the true limit of this ride would be his own exhaustion, his own ability to stay in the saddle. Anvari had fallen asleep and Kíli held him safely snuggled against his chest, while the horse raced into the darkness.

 

The morning sun rose above the heather and the evening sun sank below the green hills of the long lake, another night came and Greystorm ran on the Men-i-Naugrim towards Mirkwood, a warm summer sun accompanied them while they followed the road along the river, the green hills falling behind them and the wilder lands with their bushlands and yellow summer grass passed left and right. When dawn came the dark rim of Mirkwood rose before them. It was the first time that Kíli nudged the horse to stop, guiding it off the road. He knew he could last another night in the saddle if he had to, but he did not want to risk falling asleep in Mirkwood, so he led the horse towards a deep den not far from the looming shadows of the forest edge.

 

The small fire provided a little warmth for them, well hidden in the deep den. Kíli had gently coaxed Anvari to eat at least a little of their _cram_ rations. Anvari disliked the non-tasting hard bread, but he obediently nibbled on a piece of it, before snuggling up to Kíli to sleep. Wrapping both arms around the dwarfling, Kíli smiled down on him. “What’s your sleep song tonight?” He asked.

 

“The song of the other Anvari,” the dwarfling whispered, already closing his eyes tiredly.

 

Kíli should have known, ever since Bilbo had told the boy of Anvari the Brave, his nephew had wanted to hear the songs about the great dwarven warrior. Softly he began to hum the tune of the song, choosing one of Anvari’s favorite passages from the longer ballad.

 

My Lord  - I had the news last night, the wilden march was lost,

they'll send my troops home tonight on the road to Belegost.

I had the banner gather well, though they will march in snow,

they'll leave with the morning bell, but I - I will not go.

 

I've fought this war for hundred years, while only shadow loomed,

in storm and horror, blood and tears, I can't leave you to your doom.

The banner is ready to march home, they are well camped below,

their road will lead to Nogrod's dome, but I - I will not go.

 

My Lord, the Himring fortress stands, though wilden march was lost,

I will not follow through the lands on the road to Belegost.

The banner has left, I can still fight, and north the fires glow,

my King may have given up the fight, but I - I will not go.

 

Anvari fell asleep quickly, and Kíli too allowed himself to doze off, the horse would warn them if someone should approach. It was hours later when Anvari’s hard cough woke Kíli from his slumber. The small dwarfling’s body was shaking in a spasm of coughs that would not give in for minutes. Even after it was over Anvari’s breathing was pained and hitching and the bitter asp-root tea Kíli brewed for him took time to take effect.

 

While Kíli was careful to hide it, the fit worried him. Anvari was very fragile and the ride ahead of them was long, even if they were lucky to travel in late summer, it was warm, the winds gentle and the weather generally good. But what would happen when they came to the pass roads? Kíli sighed, he could not think of that. He had to focus on helping Anvari best that he could while they pressed on.

 

At dawn he lifted Anvari back on the horse, mounting behind him and Greystom sped back to the road and further west – into Mirkwood. The woodlands were as dark and stuffy as Kíli remembered them, if driving away the Necromancer from Dol Guldur had resulted in anything beyond visiting the danger on another place of the world, Kíli did not see it. The woods were still a shadowy place, devoid of light and air, Anvari grew more and more silent as they galloped along the Mirkwood road, the oppressive presence of the woods pressing down on him. Day and night made little difference in Mirkwood and they did not stop, Anvari slept whenever he was tired, Kíli holding him safely as Greymane made swift work of the miles and miles of shadowed road. Still Kíli could not help but to shudder when he spotted the remains of the ruin by the road where they had camped and been captured so long ago. Only an hour later they reached the enchanted river, the black waters still washing against the woodland banks.

 

“I don’t like this place,” Anvari whispered, craning his neck to look up to Kíli. “there are creepy things in the water.”

 

“I don’t like it either,” Kíli replied, as he dismounted the horse and looked around at the shore. The broken boat of old was gone, but he knew that trading caravans were crossing Mirkwood again and that they would have to cross this river as well. Before he could resolve to climb the river bank and search, the waters rushed and a white boat drifted towards them. Kíli frowned, the shape of the boat was like a fallen leaf on the water, intricately carved, it had to be an elven boat. So the Woodland Elves were at least trying to secure the road again and had created another boat to cross the river.

 

Taking the reins of the Horse he led it on the boat, luckily Greystorm stepped on the flat barge without any hesitation. “Will the boat carry us?” Anvari asked, his wide eyes scanning the dark waters. “I still don’t like this river.”

 

Kíli had to strain his arm to reach up and gently pat the boy. “I don’t like it either, Anvari,” he said as the boat drifted off the shore by itself. “when I came here the first time, there was only a rickety old barque to make the crossing, it was a good friend who brought us across in groups…” A smile curled Kíli’s lips when he remembered Boromir and Bilbo on the small vessel, bringing them over the river. And in whispering words he told Anvari of his friend while the boat carried them to the other shore.

 

TRB

 

Thorin knew where he had to look for Bofur most of the time, the Master of the Pit was usually found in the deeps of the Mountain, seeing to the more complicated undertakings in the mines, or planning expansions with the other miners. Not once had Thorin regretted his choice, Bofur was an extraordinary miner and he had a keen eye for keeping the mines safe, prosperous and develop them further. He also had the backbone to stand up to Thorin, it had only been necessary twice in his tenure, but on both occasions Bofur had made sure Thorin heard him, and heard what he had to say. The first occasion had been regarding the black steel mining the dwarves of the Reach had done in the past – several deposits of the same material, of the blood of the Dark Lord, as the people of the Reach had named it, had been found deep in Erebor’s flank and Thorin had wanted it mined. The material had proven harder and stronger than common blacksteel – he had seen the armors made from it in the Battle of the Five Armies.

 

When Bofur had objected at first, Thorin had not quite understood what the issue was, until Bofur had literally dragged him up to Stone Tears Shaft in the peak and showed him what mining that material entailed. It was excruciatingly hard work to even break it from the stone and drag the heavy loades up to the smelters, where poisonous fumes and an extremely volatile processing were the next hazards of creating the dark steel that would nearly rival Mithril in quality. When he had led Thorin through all the stages of the process, Bofur had told him what he had done after the beginning of his tenure, to improve conditions in the Blood mines and he had told Thorin outright, that if he truly wanted to mine the big lodes of the material in Erebor’s flank, he’d have to see to better conditions for those who did the backbreaking work in these shafts.

 

Thorin had agreed and he also had set some of their smartest people to work out a better way of processing for the ore, along with having Bifur constructing a better system to transport the heavy material out of the mines. Deepstar mine and Grimstar Deeps were two of the best developed mines in all dwarven kingdoms – and it had been worth it.

 

“You are right, Thirán,” he heard Bofur’s voice from one of the dead-ended shafts of the seventh deep. “there really is a hidden passage here.” He could hear Bofur chuckle. “The things you find in this Mountain… I have to give it to King Thrór – he had a hand with his mines and in hiding the best, most secret of them. I wish he could have sat down and drawn a plan of these deeps, even if it were in Moonink.”

 

“Bofur,” Thorin did not duck into the low ceilinged tunnel, but waited at the entrance.

 

It took Bofur only a moment to appear out of the dark passage, carrying a small mining lamp in his hand.  “Thorin,” The miner set the lamp on a stone close to them. “I heard what happen upside. Mahal’s mercy on you and your family. Once it is announced, I’ll have the mines still for three days.”

 

It was a tradition to do so, to show respect to the departed member of the Royal family, Thorin knew. He inclined his head, accepting Bofur’s condolences, he knew the miner truly meant them. “I am not here for that, Bofur. We’ll hold the funeral in due time, there are other matters still.” And he wanted to think of something else, of a task, a duty, some problem, to not think of his murdered sister… and of his little nephew, on his way west with uncertain hopes of healing. Thorin had never been good with hope, the way Fíli could hope and believe eluded him, but he loved his son all the more for it. “Dwalin said Kíli and Bilbo brought several dwarves with them when they returned from Moria, and placed them in your care.” It had been a sensible choice, given the circumstances.

 

Bofur’s eyes widened. “I’d not expected Bilbo to talk to you so soon, Thorin. The three are doing well for now, getting acquainted with the Mountain – there is no need to worry about them immediately.”

 

“Bilbo did not speak to me,” Thorin could see when his friends tried to shield him from something, when they tried to steer some information around him. They rarely did that, and if they did they were worried for him. He disliked it still and if Kíli were here it would lead to a formidable shouting match between them. “Dwalin gave me his report – and I would rather know whom Kíli found in Moria.” A part of him whispered that there was only one logical answer, that the Orcs still were  Orcs and dragged their captives into the deeps under the Mountains to make them work until they died from lack of light and air.

 

Bofur shook his head, he should have known. Thorin usually knew what was going on in his Mountain and he rarely let things slide. “Aye, they were captives Kíli found in the deeps, they still consider themselves shamed – from what I gather they were captured in battle and kept to work in the forges ever since. The last to survive. Thorin – meeting you might be too much for them right now. They are slowly accepting that we are not going to cast them out as Shamed Ones, or… Orc-slaves. But they are still fairly overwhelmed by it.”

 

“And you are trying to steer me away from the topic,” Thorin said a bit more sharply. “if these are survivors of Azanulbizar who survived in the hands of the Orcs, it is my responsibility… we never did search.”

 

Throwing his hands up in the air Bofur almost glared at Thorin. “You have got that wrong – you tried to free all you could from the Orcs, but how were supposed to get the people out of Khazad-dûm? It was crawling with Orcs. Kíli was lucky that Azog’s final stupidity emptied the Misty Mountains a good deal.”

 

“And maybe it was the smartest thing to keep the last of the Royal House away from these mines,” a deep voice from the shadows of the tunnel cut into their conversation. “because you would have been crazy enough to come after us, Thorin.”

 

The voice sent a cold shiver down Thorin’s spine. He knew that voice; the deep baritone, the lilting inflection… he even could hear their mother’s Grey Peaks accent in it, when he had not been able to hear his own for decades. It could not be. It had to be an illusion – a hallucination, something he was seeing, like he had seen the apparition of Thrór under the spell of gold. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Come out and show yourself!”

 

Someone moved inside the dark tunnel and then stepped into the bright light of the lamp.  A dwarrow nearly taller than Thorin, but of a more slender frame, he was too thin, roping muscles still shaping under pale skin. Long dark hair framing a face Thorin had not believed he would ever see again in this world. The features more finely chiseled than his own, high, near-aristocratic black eyebrows overshadowing dark blue eyes, and a pale, still proud face, marked by the hardships of countless years. And still… under all this Thorin could still see him, so much like Kíli, so fundamentally different… and still his little brother. Frérin. With two long strides Thorin bridged the gap between them and drew his brother into a fierce embrace. “Had I know they had you… nothing would have kept me from getting you back…” his voice was hoarse, hardly able to push the words out.

 

He felt Frérin return the embrace. “And you would have died, Thorin,” Frérin’s voice was equally as shaky. “he waited for you to come… and you were smart never to take the bait.”

 

Thorin closed his eyes, he could not imagine what Frérin must have lived through and he still found the strength to speak as he did. “Can you ever forgive me for failing you?” He should have found Frérin, he should have protected him.

 

Frérin pulled back a little, so their eyes could meet. “You did not fail me, Thorin  - you would have had you tried to rescue me and gotten yourself killed.” He smiled, the softening expression taking many a shadow off his features. “I’d never thought I’d see this Mountain again… let alone you as the King under the Mountain.”

 

TRB

 

Kíli breathed a sigh of relief when Mirkwood fell behind and the valley of the Great River opened before them, he was tired from the long ride without a break and deeply troubled. Under the shadow of the dark forest Anvari had suffered two more fits, the last so bad that it had Kíli feared the dwarfling would die in his arms. All in all it was good to leave the Woodlands behind and even Anvari greeted the summer sun with a smile. “Is it far still?” he asked.

 

“I will find a place for us to rest soon,” Kíli promised. They needed the break, and the river valley might be a good place to rest for a day before they crossed the ford and began their ascent into the Misty Mountains. Recalling a place where he had camped with Dwalin and Boromir years ago, he guided Greystorm down the green hills and towards the river. They crossed a small path under a patch of huge Walnut trees when a voice called out to them.

 

“Kíli! Is this a show of manners to ignore an old friend?” A booming voice came from behind the patch, where a huge red-haired man stood, leaning on his axe.

 

“Beorn!” Kíli made the horse slow down and come to stand beside the man. “I honestly had not expected to meet you here. We are on our way over the Mountains.”

 

“I can see that,” the bear-man walked closer. “and you look like you have been in the saddle for days and ready to drop. The mite doesn’t look any better.”

 

“We crossed Mirkwood without a stop,” Kíli told him. “I don’t like these woods.”

 

“You never did,” Beorn’s statement came with a shrug. “but you’ll have the time to rest at my house. I dare say you need it.” He gently touched the horses’ flank, with the skilled hand of one friendly with all living things, and the horses began to slowly walk towards the height where Beorn’s house stood above the river. “Who’s the little one – he is not your burglar.”

 

“Certainly not!” Kíli remembered how Beorn had teased Bilbo about his diminutive size. “Beorn, this is Anvari, son of Fíli, my nephew.” Kíli took care to speak carefully, so Anvari could try to follow the conversation, though the boy did not speak much Westron.

 

While they walked towards Beorn’s house, the bear-man and Kíli exchanged what news there were between the Mountains and the river, there was new unrest in Goblintown, and there were rumors of other dark things haunting Wilderland. When they reached the house Anvari looked wide-eyed at the huge building, and at the things so much out of proportion for him. Beorn smiled and while Kíli led the horse to the stables he showed the boy around just a little. Amazed Kíli noticed how Beorn seemed able to converse with Anvari, in spite them having nearly no common language.

 

That evening after a large meal, when Anvari was already sleeping peacefully between a pile of blankets Beorn took Kíli aside. “The small one is sick – very sick.” He said, his eyes straying to the boy. “He will not last very long.”

 

“We are going west to find healing for him,” Kíli replied honestly. “but the passage through Mirkwood has greatly weakened him and there is little I can do to alleviate his pain.”

 

Thoughtfully Beorn scratched his beard. “I’ve seen many a wasting sickness come from the dark pools of Mirkwood, but never one such as this. Go and find some sleep, Kíli. Keep the boy in the house during the dark hours, I shall see what may be done.”

 

Kíli and Anvari slept peacefully under Beorn’s roof, Anvari’s sleep undisturbed and deeper than any rest he had for a while and Kíli too felt refreshed when the morning came. Beorn had returned by sunrise, his red hair still glistening from the summer morning’s fine dew. He insisted they ate a huge breakfast with him and poured a strange, herbal smelling liquid into Anvari’s cup. After a glance at Kíli the boy drank it politely and it seemed to Kíli that some colour returned to Anvari’s cheeks. “I packed some decent food into your saddlebags,” Beorn said to Kíli. “try not to feed the mite any of that _cram_ when you can avoid it. I will never understand how you dwarves can get strong on something so dead and inedible.”

 

“Thank you, Beorn, I am in your debt,” Kíli was grateful for Beorn’s help, he felt he must not ask the shapeshifter what he had given to Anvari, but if it restored a little of Anvari’s strength, he’d not complain.

 

“Just bring the mite back here when he’s healed, it’ll be thanks enough.” Beorn told him, when they went out to the horse. “Be careful when you approach the pass road – there’s already too many Goblins again.”

 

TRB

 

Dís’ burial under the Mountain should have been a quiet affair, a way for her family to say goodbye to the mother and aunt she had been to them, but she had been much more than that. Thorin had left it open to who may wish to attend and he was surprised by the number of people from the Mountain who came to pay their respects to the Princess. Seeing Dís buried under the Mountain had not been a choice easy for him to make. He knew that she would have wished to rest beside her husband by Mirrormere’s cold shores or at least under the Weeping Willow Tree where she and Dari had been bonded. Both choices either impractical or simply impossible, and while Thorin knew that having Dís rest with her family here in Erebor was the right decision, he felt bad about it. He had considered following a wish Dís had once voiced to at least see her heart was buried under her Willow Tree, much like Frérin Dragonsbane had willed his heart to be buried in the heather’s sands, and Anvari the Brave had been buried by the sundering seas. But the thought of his sister’s body cut open and defiled was not one he could bear – he had to trust that she and Dari would find each other in the afterlife.

 

The people of the Mountain, the many that had come, obviously held no such doubts. To them it was right that Dís rested in her own crypt under the Mountain. It would be alight with candles and glowing stones for many a day, if he was to judge by the many many people who came to bring a light. His people saw Dís as their Princess, the Lady who had helped guide them through storms and dangers, through Exile and the long journey home, a daughter of Durin’s house who had done well by her people. For them she was Princess Dís, and that she also had been wife to Dari of the Reach was insignificant for them.

 

Beside Thorin stood Fíli and Fjalaris, with Asutri, it was easy to spot the tears sparkling in Fíli’s eyes. Fjalaris had put her arm around her husband, gently supporting him. She too had liked Dís, though they had locked horns on more than one occasion. To Thorin’s other side stood a darker figure, that made most dwarrow present nervous. It had taken some convincing for Frérin to attend the burial openly, and the dark dwarrow with the haunting eyes and sad expression made many a well-meaning dwarf shy away. Thorin wished with all his heart that Dís had seen her brother return home, that she had lived to embrace him again, but Mahal had willed it differently.

 

Silently watching the many dwarves and men pass by the grave, leaving lights and bright stones in the crypt reminded Thorin how much Dís had been the Queen of the Mountain, the Lady of her people. Now that she was gone she left a huge gap to fill. With Thorin’s Ida long sleeping in her lonely grave in Dunland’s marshes, that role would have to revert to the younger generation and Kíli… Thorin sighed, it did not take a wise dwarf to see that Kíli would never marry, that he was one of those dwarves who were whole in themselves, not longing for a partner, for their other half. That left Fjalaris, in the years that had passed, Thorin had been very happy she had married Fíli, and she had adjusted well to her changed station. But it was a large step to take, yet one necessary, she would make a good Lady of the Mountain, especially with Fíli being so deep into the day-to-day operations of the Kingdom. They would make a good ruling pair one day, Thorin thought saddened. Much as he loved Kíli, would always love his wild son of the storm, Fíli was the heir the kingdom needed the quiet leader that knew how to move a mountain.

 

Pushing aside the thoughts, Thorin’s eyes went back to the crypt, where Brea just placed two beautiful gemstones on the ground, she was weeping openly. To her Dís had been a friend as well as a Lady. If the crypt full of lights said anything it was that Dís had been a most beloved Princess of her people.

 

The last people left and only Thorin and his family remained. Fíli and Fjalaris approached the stone sarcophagus together; they would work on the adornments for it as time passed, with Thorin taking the walls of the crypt to adorn. In time their grief would transform to a work of art. Asutri had slipped from his parents and came back to Thorin, his wild blond hair only just so tamed into a ponytail. “Is Grandmother Dís angry at us… cause she left…” he asked, with a small hiccup.

 

Squatting down, Thorin lifted the small boy up to hold him. So much had happened to this small life, since Dís had fallen in defense of them. “No, she is not angry,” he said gently. “but she had to begin her journey home to Mahal’s eternal halls, into the heart of the world. It is a long long journey she has to take and you must not wait for her to return. Sometimes she will look back to you and you will feel it here.” He placed his hand on Asutri’s chest. “And she will be glad when she finds you happy and growing up well.”

 

From across the crypt Fíli looked at Thorin and the King realized that what he had told Asutri was not so much different than what he told two small dwarflings missing their father after Azanulbizar. Hugging the small dwarfling close, he closed his eyes. Now, much like then, they needed to go on, to let the dead sleep in the deeps and take care of the living. He felt the small arms hugging his neck, Asutri trying to comfort him, and in this moment Thorin again thanked Mahal that he had been allowed to find his true treasure – his family.

 

TRB

 

The glacier had been pushing to the pass-road and Kíli had to be careful guiding the horse across the icy fields. It had not happened in many years that the glaciers would grow like this and cover up the High pass. If they continued like this they might swallow up the pass entirely in a few decades. Climbing the long pass over the Mountains was a straining undertaking even under the best of circumstances, and while Greystorm still made haste on their long journey, the crossing of the Mountains had been taxing. Kíli was nearly relieved to notice that Anvari liked the ice on the pass, the chilly presence did not perturb him much, he truly was Fíli’s son in that regard. Buried somewhere deep in him was a grandson of the Reach.

 

The greater worry Kíli had were the Goblins, he had managed to evade serious danger up till now. Twice they had run into small Goblin groups, that he had been able to pick off with his bow. But he could not afford to get into a fight, which forced him to press on hard, to get out of the Mountains. Kíli focused on not blocking out the bond, as they journeyed, hoping that Fíli could somehow feel that Anvari was alive and still fighting. That way he had felt the heavy night when Dís had been buried, and while he mourned her passing, he had no time to stop to grieve or even wish he’d been there to see her rest in the stone. And he knew she’d have his hide if he wasted time on mourning when there were things to do. _Duty first, grief later._ She had always taught him, and she had given her life to protect her grandchildren, she would have sent him off with Anvari in a heartbeat.

 

The road wound down the mountainside and then the massive rocks gave way and they saw Eriador before them, shining golden under the light of the later summer sun. Kíli gently ruffled Anvari’s black mane. “Look around you, little warrior,” he said. “all the world is resting at your feet – from the western seas to the plains of the east, standing on the top of the world.”

 

Anvari’s eyes followed his gesture, amazed at the sight. “Is this where we are headed?”

 

“Do you see the peaks at the horizon? Those are the Blue Mountains, and behind lie the Western Seas that cover the lost lands. Before our journey is over you will have seen the islands that remain of the old world.”

 

“Really?” Anvari asked excited. To him the old world was a world of stories and legends, of powerful dark monsters and brave warriors fighting them. He knew the ballads and songs, admiring the heroes of old and knew little of the pain and sadness of those times yet.

 

“I wouldn’t take you on a journey to see a grocer, would I?” Kíli asked back, teasing him a little, as he nudged the horse to go on and trot down the winding road.

 

When the night fell the worst heights were behind them and Greystorm could run again, taking the long slopes leading down into Rivendell with a speed that Kíli would not have dared on any horse’s back. By noon of the next day they reached the hidden valley, a single rider meeting them not far away from the Hawk’s watch. Kíli had known that Elrohir had sent word ahead, but how the elf knew when to await them remained beyond him. “You made good time,” Elladan observed. “even with Greystorm I would have expected you to need a few days more. You can rest at the watch before heading on.”

 

“I’d rather not waste time,” Kíli said. “the great East road will be a swift road on this horse but once we reach the Ered Luin the passes will be worse than those behind us.”

 

“A night’s rest will help you to ride faster in the morning,” Elladan pointed out as they rode through the gates of the Watch. “you must have been in the saddle for more days than is good for anyone.”

 

“We are dwarves, we are made of stone and stone endures, it does not bent or break,” Kíli quoted the one line every weapon’s master would drill into his students.

 

“And stone shatters under the right chisel,” Elladan’s mien became more firm. “Elrohir wrote all he knew on Anvari’s condition to me, and while I am as much puzzled on how to heal him, I believe that the healing wells of Rivendell will help him to gather new strength for the last leg of your journey.”

 

Kíli knew better than to try and argue with the healer, Elladan was a healer first and a warrior second, he had once healed Kíli from a near-fatal belly-wound and he would not stand aside if someone needed help. “Thank you, Elladan,” he gave in, knowing that the elf was more right than he might like to admit.

 

Rivendell’s healing springs were hidden deep in the valley in a thicket of jasmine, wild roses and blackthorn bushes, that Kíli was amazed that there was a path at all. He was carrying Anvari there, because when they had dismounted Anvari had been barely able to stand up, giving not only Kíli a shock. The young dwarfling’s feet seemed unable to support his frail body any more. Elladan was leading them towards the springs. Under the flowering branches shimmered a bright pool of clear water.

 

Kíli helped Anvari to discard his heavy travelling clothes and slide into the water. “Keep your arms on the grass,” he said, before he noticed that the waters seemed to carry Anvari easily.

 

“It feels so good,” Anvari smiled drowsily. “warm, and it tickles.”

 

“Don’t fall asleep just yet,” Kíli nudged him a little, to remind him to not doze off. It was easy to just get tired by this calm pool, with the heavy smell of elven jasmine in the still warm air.

 

“You are drowsy too!” Anvari insisted, his blue eyes looking nearly accusingly at Kíli.

 

“You both can rest,” Elladan told them. “the waters will not drown you, nor will any harm come to you here. Sleep and let the waters lend you what strength they can give.”

 

Keeping his body inside the water, Anvari rested his arms on the warm sand and grass, falling asleep where he was. Kíli tried to stay awake but within moments the peaceful black oblivion of sleep came for him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
> 
> The poem in his chapter is vaguely modeled after one you might recognize. Who does might win a free wish or a plushie ;)


	22. Questions of loyalty

The winds had turned; instead of the soft whispers coming from the south during the summer, a rough northwestern gale greeted them as Greystorm galloped through the Bruinen Ford and out onto the Great East Road. Kíli knew that out on the far away sea the winds were shifting, and that the strong gale blowing was only the beginning. Summer was dying and autumn was coming to Eriador, and it would not be long until the Lone Lands were again the cold miserable place they always were during the cold months. Even with the worry for Anvari and the pressing urgency of this journey, he could not deny his heart was soaring when he saw the familiar barren heights, crowned with rough rocks and the scarce woodlands greeting him left and right of the road. Twenty years after choosing Erebor for a home, twenty years of trying to view the Lonely Mountain truly has his home and still his heart would beat faster when the familiar ridges of the Weather Hills came in sight and when he heard the cries of the Wandering Falcon high above in the skies.

 

Elderberry Hill flew by, they did not stop or rest, the Last Bridge came in sight one evening and by next sunrise he could already see the shapes of the Weather Hills closing in. Greystorm made swift work of the leagues of the road and Kíli felt refreshed enough to not stop their ride for days. Only when Anvari became too exhausted they would rest, but the dwarfling was growing quieter, sleeping more in the saddle, often too tired to even talk much. Afraid for the small life dwindling so quickly, Kíli broke down rest to the absolute minimum, the Weather Hills fell behind and the Midgewater swamps closed in to their right. Kíli was not sure how many days it had been when finally the gates of Bree came in sight, at the first light of dawn.

 

Making Greystorm slow down as they approached the gate, the guards were opening the gates at sunrise. “Ho, Stranger!” One of them called out. “From whence to where?”

 

Kíli frowned, after sunrise the guards usually had not cared who passed through. “From Erebor to Ered Luin,” he replied curtly. “is there something afoot, Guardsman?”

 

“He is trying to be careful and not making a smart work of it,” A taller figure, leaning against the wall of the gateway replied, the man stood above six feet tall, with a sage-green cloak and the worn clothes of a traveler.

 

Kíli recognized him at second glance. “Balakan, if the Breelander Guard has your people help them, things must be bad.” He greeted the Ranger while he guided the horse to walk through the gateway and into Bree. “what’s become of Hiron and Eiron, they used to run the guard?”

 

Balakan pushed away from the wall and walked beside the horse, as they crossed Bree. “Hiron is an old man, Kíli, living out his remaining days with his granddaughter’s family up in Archet. And Eiron was killed in a raid two years after your people left here. I doubt you will find many of the old guardsmen you used to know.”

 

“I came alone all along the East Road without a single attack,” Kíli pointed out, he had not dismounted, their conversation took place while the horse walked to the Western Gate.

 

“One rider on a fast horse, well-armed and well-armored,” Balakan cast a short glance at Kíli’s chainmail armor. “the robbers and raiders will think twice risking that, when there is easier prey to be had.”

 

“If they are that cowardly, your people should have little trouble in hunting them down.” Kíli’s answer was a bit more sharply than necessary. While he could sympathize with the problems of the Ranger, and while he knew that the Lone Lands were a wild place even on a good day, he disliked the veiled complaints he heard.

 

Balakan shrugged. “I did not mean it like that,” he said, deciding to avoid another debate over who was right or wrong. Not one of the Breelanders these days would recognize the Dwarven Prince on the tall horse for the wandering blacksmith of decades past. And ultimately the Lone Lands were a problem that had no solution. “if you want to go to the Blue Mountains, be careful. The place has become lonely and dangerous.”

 

They had reached the western gate and Kíli was glad to be out of Bree, the village had not improved in the last decades, if anything it had become just a little bit rougher around the edges. “I will be careful, Balakan,” he replied. “the Light may shine upon you and your kin.” He nudged the horse to break into trot and shortly after they were racing along the road again.

 

Riding through the Shire was a harsh contrast to the road in Breeland, had the Breeland become rough and darker, the Shire seemed positively unchanged. When they rode past Brandywine Bridge and along the road towards Hobbiton, Kíli could have sworn it was only yesterday that he, Bilbo and Dwalin had come that way. The disapproving glances of the Hobbits were the same as the fields and gardens, harvest was in the last stages, apples hung in orchards and pumpkins where hacked up on the fields for their kernels, which would be pressed to oil, and the vineyards were bringing down the late grapes.

 

They reached Hobbiton by sundown and Kíli guided the horse up the path of the hill, in the dimming light of evening Bagshot row was prone to remind him of another evening coming up this hill.  The door of Bag End stood open and a Hobbit stood on the stairs debating with a venerable Hobbit Lady in full feathers. “I will not be pushed aside like this, Drogo Baggins!” The Hobbit Lady snapped. “No one has seen him in twenty years and I do not care how many letters he is writing to you or the Mayor of Michel Delving!”

 

Her words made Kíli realize that these had to be Drogo Baggins and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, how much they had changed! Compared to Bilbo they had aged a lot. Drogo’s eyes widened slightly when he saw Kíli. “You will excuse me, Lobelia, I think I have a visitor.”

 

Lobelia turned around and raised her umbrella. “You!” She shrieked, her voice cracking with temper. “I knew that your dishonest kind would show up here again. Mark my words, tinkers and vagabounds are not tolerated here any longer.”

 

Kíli smiled at her, with the same over-sweet smile that he usually reserved for Grisela’s ladies in waiting. “Do you happen to know if Clayhanger’s duck pond is still as beautiful as it used to be?”

 

Lobelia spluttered, lost for words and Drogo chuckled. “I wouldn’t mention ducks in her presence… Kíli was it, right?” He smiled pleasantly, like to apologize for his bad memory.

 

“Correct, and this is Anvari,” Kíli introduced the child after dismounting. Anvari bowed shyly, keeping close to Kíli.

 

Drogo’s smile widened. “Primula will be all excited of having such a small guest.” He said, only to be interrupted by Lobelia.

 

“So!” She cawed. “Bilbo had the nerve to get himself with a chance-child and to send it here!” She huffed, looking down on Anvari disparagingly. “There is nothing for your sort here; we certainly do not need any rug-rats…”

 

“Lobelia!” Drogo all but shouted. “If you think this child is a Hobbit, you are as blind as old Lily Proudfoot.”

 

Gathering up her skirts Lobelia hurried past them and out of the garden gate, exasperated and angered, lost for words at the sheer nerve of these vagabounds to show up again. By supper all of Hobbiton would hear of Bilbo’s secret love-child staying in Bag End.

 

Drogo sighed. “She really is getting worse with the years,” he said to Kíli. “I apologize for the sad scene. Do you bring word from Bilbo… and of course you will be staying overnight.”

 

“Bilbo gave me a letter for you,” Kíli said, as he led the horse to the meadow behind Bag End. “we won’t be staying long, Drogo, be first light we need to press on, but a night of rest is most welcome.”

 

“If you were to try ride on without giving your son some rest, my wife would have your hide, Dwarf Prince of no. Primula never stands for children taking too much strain.”

 

TRB

 

Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills was in a bind and he hated that with a passion. He had never lied about his situation with Thorin, it had never been necessary, the dislike was entirely mutual. It had begun in their childhood, Dáin being the older cousin had always hated having to bow to the younger Prince of Erebor, but as Dain’s father Nain used to say: those were the realities of the world, the elder line of Durin’s House held the royal title, the younger lines had to bow like it or not. And Thrór had enough real power to back up the claim – the armies and riches of Erebor would even make foreign Kings bow in deference to the King under the Mountain. Much as it had rankled young Dáin he had seen the sense in that and he had learned to always assess how much _real_ power someone had and to compare it to the power Dáin himself held and act accordingly. It had helped him to quickly stabilize his rule after Nain died.

 

When Erebor fell, Dáin’s firm view on the world had been shaken for the first time – in spite of losing all their real power in the span of one day, Thrór would refuse to adjust to his changed circumstances, carrying on as the King of the Longbeards like he still sat under his Mountain. Originally Dáin had encouraged the bereft noble Houses of Erebor to come to the Iron Hills in an attempt to sway the power balance more to his favor, to amass more real power. It had worked, most of the noble Houses abandoned King Thrór in favor of the Iron Hills and Dáin had entertained high hopes to see the title of King shift to him soon.

 

But then Thrór had done something that certainly betrayed his fraying mind – based on his armies and other people he tried to reclaim Moria. It had been a bold move and again Dáin had assumed that Thrór might wish to fall in battle, to find a befitting end. Old-fahioned, stupid and unrealistic, but it would certainly fit with his warped sense of grandeur. And truly – Thrór had died, most of the armies were lost and the population of the Mountain lost nearly an entire generation of able-bodied fighters in the bloody slaughter by the gates of Moria and Dáin had expected to become King of Durin’s folk in due course. However nothing came of it, for from the ashes of Azanulbizar rose one hero to take the leadership of his fraying people.

 

The boy Dáin had hated bowing to had become a young warrior and rose to the next King of Durin’s folk, mostly supported by his surviving soldiers and whatever commoners he had with him. Dáin had decided to contest that, he had been curtained that backed by the nobility of  Erebor he could win this conflict, only to find out that while he had major houses on his side, he lacked the support of the necessary number of houses descended from Moria to make that change, while Thorin had that support. It had made no sense – those commoner houses held no power, no significance, they were meaningless, how could Thorin believe they made a good power-base? Still, things were what they were and the Elder Line retained the title of King of Durin’s folk, albeit it was the title in exile.

 

Dáin had been frustrated but not wasted time on complaining, realities were what they were and he was politician enough to see that. His hopes turned to Thorin’s unmarried state – the bad-tempered, cantankerous and moody dwarf would hardly entice a Lady into marrying him and thus Dáin’s son would be next logical choice. Dáin sighed, that had not been the best of his plans, for Thorin would ultimately prefer his common breed and lowly raised nephews for heirs.

 

Having to deal with them and Thorin had done nothing for Dáin’s nerves. Political acumen demanded he keep his distance from the boys, one day they would compete for the Throne with him. But whenever he had to deal with Thorin things got smoother when the boys were around, they tended to improve his disposition and as Fíli grew older, he became someone to temper the worst of Thorin’s rages. Grudgingly Dáin would admit that they were capable, hard-working lads, he would not wish ill on them unfortunately they were Thorin’s nephews and thus stood in direct conflict with his own son.

 

When Dáin had heard of the quest for Erebor he had not known if he should laugh or cry. Thorin must have taken a leave from his senses to try and fight the dragon, but maybe it was one last gesture of grandeur much like Thrór’s last battle. When he had learned – via his wife who got a letter from her sister Grís – that Thorin had taken his nephews on the Quest Dáin’s old heart had not been as gleeful as it should have been. In terms of realism he could simply sit back and wait for them all to die and he would become King by due course. But another part in himself was growling that no decent father would take his children into such a fight, that it was not _right_ to risk such young lives against a monster like Smaug. He had tried to smother that voice, ignoring it entirely and still told himself that if Thorin died, the boys were no real threat regarding the throne, they both were low-born and unsuited for the Throne. He could claim the throne without having to kill them.

 

The Fall of the Dragon and the Battle of the Five Armies had become two sore points in Dáin’s book afterwards – because by all realistic sense neither should have happened. This was not the First Age where single heroes defeated monsters or alliances were based on notions of honor and yet exactly that was exactly what had happened, like the Age of Dreamers and Legends was not yet over. With Thorin crowned under the Mountain Dáin had to seriously adjust his maneuvering, because Thorin was a strong, stubborn ruler with enough real power to give anyone pause. Grisela’s meddling had not been helpful either and her downright contempt for Thorin’s family had poisoned the air a lot, especially with the little scene she had treated everyone to on Fíli’s marriage.

 

But now, with all that had happened and been revealed Dáin was in a bind. He had not known of the plot against Erebor, and the events had put him in a precarious situation already. With Thorin himself saving Dáin’s son and with Fíli saving Dáin’s life in the fight against the wyrm, he was in an obligation to them both. They had handled the situation with their usual no-self-preservation, no-good-sense courage, and had given Dáin more shocks than he liked along the way. But what angered him most was the murder of Dís and the poisoning of little Anvari. If the plotters had only tried to murder Thorin Oakenshield, Dáin would not have even been flustered. A king who had no assassination attempt per week should be worried that his enemies were not taking him seriously, but turning on a woman and on children? That went too far for Dáin and he would have to clean house in the Iron Hills. Because now he owed some serious obligation to the Elder Line and he had been harboring criminals of the worst kind in his lands. He hated to be in a bind.

 

“The way you keep stomping down this hallways, I should wonder what the poor pillars did to you,” a voice cut into his thoughts.

 

Dáin stopped, turning around to find himself faced with Fíli. “Shouldn’t you be with your family?” he asked, less as a Lord than as the older relative. “it can’t be easy for you with your brother off with your eldest.” It was another crazy thing to do – so much like them and somewhere deep down Dáin wondered if he truly still wanted the crown of Durin’s folk, if that was the kind of hair-brained leadership that would be expected from him.

 

“Fjalaris is with Brea, probably going over the expansion for the trade district,” Fíli replied. “and Asutri has a new Uncle to get to know, he is not yet sure if the new Uncle will be as great as the Uncle he already has.”

 

Frérin, Dáin had not even begun to think about the implications of his return. “And you just happened to come by here?” he inquired, his lips quirking in a small smile.

 

“No, I thought you might prefer to speak privately on how you wish to handle the issue of your traitors.” Fíli leaned back against one of the pillars. “if you wish to pursue them that is.” His blue eyes met Dáin’s challengingly.

 

The older dwarf Lord shook his head. “Listen, lad, let me speak bluntly – I know you don’t like me and you have no reason to. I wish I could simply hate you, it would make my life so much easier. I would have had no compunction to compete with you or your brother for the throne had Thorin not secured it so well. But I will not stand for the murder of your mother or for poisoning children, and I will find those who hatched that inane plot and punish them personally. That does not make me your new best friend, though.”

 

Fíli’s lips quirked in a smile. “Fair enough. I think we both will have an easier time now that we know where we stand.”

 

TRB

 

With the first light of a windy September morning they left Hobbiton and turned west to the downs, before following the road North. Here Kíli knew every path and bent, the grounds were the familiar road home only that in the last twenty years the paths had been grown over with grass and bushes. The day passed swiftly and they rode into another night as they finally came to the old road that long ago had been the famous dwarven road to Belegost. The bridge over the Lune had been in ruins when the dwarves had come into Exile and had been rebuilt by them, though it was dark Kíli noticed the traces of damage on the stone arch spanning the wide river. No one seemed to care to maintain the bridge, now that they were gone. Another day came and night fell again, the Mountains came closer and they rode onwards. A full moon shone down on them in the windy night and the familiar settlements along the road to Ered Luin that now stood in ruins were ghostly images they passed by. Kíli could not help to shiver seeing the land of his childhood so lone and empty, forlorn it slept under the restless winds, dreaming of another age.

 

By dawn they passed Stonedeep Mound, one of the larger settlements they had founded at the feet of Cardemir valley, it had been one of the first settlements founded while work to make Cardemir habitable had still been under way. Now the heavy stone houses stood empty under the mists of the cool morning. Red and golden leaves falling on black stone roofs and the wind playing hide and seek with the shadows between the silent yards.

 

“The houses are empty,” Anvari asked in a whisper. “where did all the people go?” He drew closer to Kíli, seeking his protection from the eerie place.

 

“They went with us to Erebor, little warrior,” Kíli told him. “before you were even born.” Still, Anvari was right, the place echoed a distant sadness and Kíli wrapped his arm tighter around the dwarfling.

 

“Why did you go away?” Anvari’s blue eyes were wide as he took in the foothills, covered with autumnal trees and the long grass of Eriador’s summer meadows. “It’s beautiful here.”

 

Kíli had to hide a smile as he ruffled Anvari’s hair, his nephew was right – this land was heartbreakingly beautiful and filled with an almost lyrical sadness. Had it only been for himself, Kíli could have happily stayed in the Ered Luin and wandered the wilds of Eriador for the rest of his life. But Erebor… Erebor was Thorin’s homeland, Thorin, Dwalin… all the others who had dreamt of a real home, deserved better than a life with following the storm. “Because Erebor is our homeland, Anvari,” he explained, careful to not sound wistful. “and that’s where we belong. Thorin missed Erebor for many years and he was happy to come home.”

 

Anvari smiled up at Kíli. “And Uncle Thorin is always right, he is the King.” He said earnestly, though his eyes still strayed to the near enchanted landscape they passed.

 

They did not ride into Cardemir valley but further north, following a smaller path that once had led to the settlements at the northern end of the Ered Luin. Two days passed until they reached the place where they path split in two, one turning around the rocky bent to lead them towards the road across the mountains. The Blue Mountains were not nearly as high as the Misty Mountains, and their high flanks and deep valleys were covered with woodlands, the highest peaks though were snowcapped. Kíli followed the deep V-shaped valley as long as possible, before beginning the way up to the pass between Eagle’s Guard Peak and Greywinter’s Height.

 

It was late afternoon when they reached the top of the pass, the weather had taken a turn for worse and a cold wind blew from the west. Kíli had pulled up his hood, he had forgotten that the Ered Luin was a weather divide and that the clouds coming from the sea would get stuck in the valleys. The heavy rain pouring from the dark clouds was a continuous downpour, driven against them by a merciless gale. Anvari coughed hard, his small body jerking in pain. The fit was so bad, that Kíli decided to give Anvari the last of Elrohir’s elixir, it eased Anvari’s condition at least for a while.

 

“It’s not far anymore,” he said softly, drawing the boy close to keep him warm. “we are past the last ridge… and yonder lay the great sea.”

 

Anvari peered ahead, even in the gloomy light of the rainy day they could see the sea lying deep down under the stormy winds. “Is that the great sea where the other Anvari was buried, so his soul could find his friends in the world beyond?” he asked. “Will… will I be buried by the sea too?”

 

The question tore Kíli’s heart, Anvari was so small, too small to ask such a question with such earnest words. “No, you won’t,” he said firmly. “but… the great elven hero the other Anvari fought for? We are here to find him.”

 

The distraction worked at once, Anvari craned his neck to look at Kíli, eyes wide in amazement. “Really?” he asked. “But the stories say he died in a chasm of fire.”

 

“Not all stories are true,” Kíli nudged the horse to go on, to trot down the muddy road, it was not far to the sea anymore.

 

TRB

 

Pacing before the fireplace of Wildfyre Hall Gimli tried to not let his temper rule his better judgment. At least Lifa, the lady in waiting had enough sense to keep his mother nicely locked away in her rooms. Not that it was any polite decisions for a son to have his mother locked away in her bower, but in this case it was preferable to do so and wait for his father to return home. He wished there was someone he could talk to about this – even if it was his Uncle Óin, but he was busy elsewhere. In fact, he had not come back home since the news of Prince Anvari having been poisoned had reached the city. Gimli sighed, that did not sound like a coincidence.

 

Slowly he went to the table where the letter lay, a part of him still wished he had never read the parchment, but… the truth was better than not knowing. When he had seen the letter on the table he had believed it was a note from Óin pertaining the latest crisis, but instead it had been written in his mother’s clear hand.

 

_Griselá, my dear,_

_I must admit that I am more than vexed with this latest development. Getting the former Erebor nobility involved into a plot of such scale is not only unwise – it does associate them with a known malcontent and now traitor. That will condemn them even further! And while I agree with you that the wife Fíli married is unsuitable – what did you expect my dear, his father was of such low birth, he was bound to have simple tastes! – he remains Thorin’s favorite. Drawing any attention to the children he sired with his wife is the last thing you want to do. I have warned you time and again, that Thorin’s gold sickness has turned to his family, and he will react irrationally where his house is concerned. Attack the children and I guarantee that he will be out for blood. The children must be dealt with when they are older and more prone to accidents._

_For now I would recommend that you focus on seeing Kíli married suitably, a wife from our family would of course be preferable still but he has shown some dislike for red-heads recently, so I would think you might want to widen your scope. I will do what I can to ensure he will be with the delegations sent for next Durin’s Day. You might consider the less honorable route and try a tried and true potion on him – once he has slept with the Lady he will have to marry her. But be careful to only do so, if Dwalin is not with him. I tried such a ploy in the past and the poor girl ended up in Dwalin’s arms. As the War Master of the Mountain Dwalin needs Thorin’s permission to marry, which Thorin of course refused to give! Poor Hifra’s reputation was ruined of course, albeit Dwalin laid claim to the child after it was born._

_Regarding a Lady of the Mountain, the death of unfortunate Dís should leave Thorin in some troubles. Fjalaris may be well liked by the crafters and trading populace, but she is in no way a Lady of these Halls. So Thorin has to consider either marriage for himself or Kíli now, intelligence and patience are needed now, not wild schemes like this Deep Dwarf business._

Gimli put the letter down and closed his eyes. He had read it all and it did not get better. His mother – his own mother – was maybe involved in the plot against the Royal House, at the very least she had been aware of the plot and kept her silence. The young warrior curled his hand in a fist and brought it down on the table. He knew his mother was frustrated, she had hoped for a higher position of her House and herself, and she disliked King Thorin’s court but to scheme against Durin’s House… it was treason.

 

His family had certainly lost standing, Gimli had to admit. When he had been a child he had been friends with Fíli and Kíli, though their age difference had always left a gap between them. He well remembered when they had returned from their journeys, regaling him with tales of far-off countries, of working in quarries and forges, of roads and adventures, he had loved their stories and sometimes secretly wondered why the sons of Durin’s House should go and work amongst menfolk, hauling stoneships upriver or help to build a fortress in a ruined city to the south. When he had gotten older, he had begun to guess some of the truth, but that had not disrupted their friendship. Then Fíli and Kíli had passed their trials and followed their Uncle on the quest for Erebor, with Kíli slaying the dragon. How had he envied them, how had he wished he were old enough to go with them. But his father had gone with them and he had won fame and standing through the quest.

 

Gimli knew where it all had begun to fall apart – on the day his mother had forbidden him to ride with Kíli as the long journey home began. He would admit he had still been too young, but it had been a chance that came only once in a lifetime. Childhood had been at an end, and with Grís refusal to let him go, two others had taken his place – Ánar and Hlevár, orphans raised by a mad old crone who had risen to Kíli’s personal guard. Gimli had been more than a little jealous, though that lay behind him now. When he grew older he began to understand the difference between the way he had been permitted to grow up and the path Durin’s House had followed. And while he knew that his friendship with the Princes was a thing of the past, he still was a loyal son of the Mountain.

 

Why in the world had his mother schemed with her sister against the King under the Mountain? Why had she kept silent about the treason she knew of? Sitting down on one of the chairs, he carefully rolled the letter up, he would show it to his father. Where was his fahter? He should have been home long ago. His work as head of the treasury rarely kept him so long. What if something was wrong with him? A cold thought invaded Gimli’s mind. What if his father had been implicated?

 

No, he must not panic. Though it was hard to remain calm, the longer the hours crept by. Outside in the streets the bell for the third watch was sounding. Gimli closed his eyes. If his father was not back by fifth watch he would have no choice than to go up to the palace and confess all he had learned about his family’s involvement in this sad affair to either Prince Fíli or King Thorin… the thought of facing the latter, made his stomach nearly turn. But what else could he do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	23. The strength of a wave

Rain was battering down on the land, a stiff western gale drove heave grey clouds against the Mountains to unleash their loads of icy water on the foothills of the Ered Luin. The path had long been washed to a swamp by the flooding waters and small creeks were running down the hillsides. It was a way without a real path and it had been a day without light. The entire day had passed in a dim grey light that did not lift and now that evening closed in the gale was getting stronger, driving the waves against the shore. The sea was roaring hollowly against the coast, the winds driving the rain and the waves towards the land. Kíli raised his arm to shield his eyes a little against the deluge, through the veils of water and grey evening darkness he could see the buildings of the settlement by the strait. It was a sea-elven village, one of the many along the coast of Forlindon. When people spoke of the elves they mostly thought of Rivendell, or the greater elven realms beyond the mountains, maybe they even would think of Mithlond, the Grey Havens, but few realized that Forlindon and Harlindon still held a number of elven settlements, belonging to none of the great kingdoms. Kíli had never been tempted to find out about the elven leadership in these parts, or what kind of elves lived between the Mountains and the Sea. “Let’s find some shelter, Anvari,” he said as he nudged the horse to go on.

 

The settlement was quiet; the beautiful stone buildings were clustered along the stone coast, in any other settlement Kíli would have looked for the tavern to find shelter, but here he had no idea what the tavern would look like and if the Elves had such a thing as a tavern. He sighed, it had been some years that he had been forced to knock on doors to find a place to stay, but that didn’t mean he had forgotten how to go about it.

 

“Kíli, son of Thorin?” The melodious voice startled him from his thoughts. An elf had approached nearly unseen, he moved through the nasty weather with an ease that belied the storm and heavy rain. His long hair was pale as sea-foam and his green eyes studied Kíli with some curiosity.

 

“Aye,” Kíli answered, dismounting. “How do you know my name?”

 

“Helegion of the Seariders,” the Elf introduced himself. “the Lords of the island told us to look out for you and to bring you across the strait once you arrived. I was surprised to see anyone travel in this weather.”

 

Kíli tried to not look puzzled; his elven history claimed firmly that the Fëanorians and the Sea Elves disliked each other as a matter of principle, linking back to some burned ships and the first kinslaying. “I guess we will have to wait out the storm?” he asked. “If you point me to where we may stay until the worst is over, I will do my best to not disturb your people.”

 

Helegion laughed, genuinely amused. “The storm is already fading, Kíli, it did rage for days, an evil spirit woke under the dreaming ice of Forochel and the sea was very angered at its presence. Now it begins to calm. Do not fear, we will get you across before it gets much worse, my brothers are already readying the ship.”

 

“You are getting out on the sea in this weather?” Kíli asked, trying not to sound apprehensive, but following Helegion as he led them down to the harbor. There were three ships moored at the stone quay, two were larger vessels and the third a slender and smaller craft. None of them looked like swanships at all.

 

“The Sea and the Elves are friends,” Helegion’s statement echoed an affection for the cold sea that Kíli could not begin to fathom. “do not fear, we have crossed the sound in worse weather.” He pointed down to the smaller ship. “A harbor-finder, small and agile, she can sail up even shallow fjords and she can ride the hardest waves without breaking up.”

 

Kíli inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself. He did not like boats and he disliked the idea of getting out on the sea in such a gale. But… it was necessary. The faster they got to the other side, the faster he could try and find Rú, so he did make any further arguments. “I guess I will have to leave Greywind here.”

 

“You better do, he would certainly dislike the crossing,” Helegion gently patted the wet horses’ neck. “we will make sure he gets safely back to his Master.”

 

Helping Anvari off the Horse’s back, Kíli swiftly assembled his pack, before another elf led the horse away. Together they followed Helegion across a small plank and onto the elven boat. Kíli keeping a secure hand on Anvari’s shoulder. “We will be alright, little warrior,” he said reassuringly.

 

To his surprise Anvari smiled up at him. “Feels so good,” he said. “much better than before.” He raised his hands towards the water, like he wanted to embrace the raging waves.

 

“You feel better on the water?” Kíli’s mind raced, Elrohir’s sea-stone had been the first thing that had helped Anvari. Could the presence of the great western seas have an even stronger effect on him? What kind of poison could do something like that?

 

Another sea elf approached and led them in the middle of the boat and then up to where Helegion had taken the steering oar. The ship was already maneuvering away from the quay. In spite of feeling not very safe on the vessel, Kíli had to admire how the sea elves maneuvered their ship through the restless wind. All he knew about ships came from the river ships that were used on the Anduin and the River Running, and while those relied heavily on oars, the sea elves seemed to do most of the work by good use of their sails.

 

It was a stormy crossing, the strait seemed like a boiling cauldron of angry waves and the wind grew stronger the further out they came. The twenty-five leagues across the sea seemed to become two hundred, and when the rocky shore-line of Himring island became visible beyond the driving rain the gale became even stronger, as if the winds themselves tried to push the ship away from the island. Helegion laughed, his pale hair was wet, and his bare feet were firmly planted on the planks, yet the sea elf seemed to thoroughly enjoy the test of wills against the sea herself. “Don’t worry too much,” he called out to Kíli, “it is never easy to approach the island, even on a calm day. The winds prevent nearly any approach from the strait.”

 

“Then how will we get there?” Anvari asked, he stood closely held by Kíli, and enjoyed the raging storm in his very own way.

 

“We go around the island and let the wind push us into Himring’s harbor,” Helegion replied, before calling an order to his crew regarding the sails.

 

The boat was nearly twisted around by two violent waves as they made the turn around the skerry coast off Himring, Kíli did not dare to guess how Helegion knew where to steer the boat between the knife-sharp rocks protruding from the water. The sea-elf handled the boat like he could feel his way through the midst of the tempest. The longer Kíli watched, the more he truly believed that the sea and the elves were friends. Eventually they came around again and the wind pushed them towards a long headland on the north side of the island. Afar Kíli could see vague lights shimmering into the stormy night.

 

“Himring Lightfires – they guide our way in the worst storms,” Helegion said, as the crew began to reduce sails. “even in a winter storm they will not fail.”

 

“I always thought the Sea Elves and the Fëanorians hated each other,” Kíli observed. “but you seem to be familiar with the approach to the island.”

 

“And it is said, that dwarves hate all Elves as a matter of course,” Helegion shrugged. “no one event has ever defined an entire people, Kíli. My people and I chose our path a long time ago – though the other elves prefer to not mention us.”

 

Kíli felt quite clearly that Helegion did not wish to explain further, and who was Kíli to ask? It seemed that Elven History was as complicated and facetted as Dwarven history tended to be. The ship closed on a long quay and through the veils of rain Kíli could see buildings on the steep hillside behind and on the pier itself, shining brightly out into the storm.

 

TRB

 

The bells of fifth watch rang out in the great silence and Gimli sighed. No sign of his father and no message either, not that Glóin was reliable when it came to messages. He often would forget when he was busy with some problem at the treasury. Gimli really could not imagine why his father would so happily invest so many additional time into his work at the treasury, it was the worst kind of bean-counting, book-keeping assignment that Gimli could imagine. He’d always prefer a few skulls to split instead.

 

Looking down on the folded letter he considered waiting longer, but decided against it. Much as he wished to wait, to keep this inside the family, he had no other choice. Instructing the servants to keep Grís locked away until he returned, he left Wildfyre Hall and began to walk towards the palace. He could not help but feel nervous as he crossed the heart of the city, were there guards about? Did someone look oddly at him?

 

Not that anyone took much notice as he walked by, the city’s evening hours were quiet but there truly were more guards about than was usual. With the attack on the Mountain it made only sense, Gimli assumed. When he passed the Merchant’s crossing, he saw Brea, daughter of Briga speaking with a rather exasperated small man. “And you tell the most honorable Merchant Khalivhár that his complaints have been heard and taken seriously. And _do_ stop squealing while you are at it. I will meet with Khalivhár within the hour and I have sent to the treasury, to clear up his complaints about the mintage but no matter how often he sends you up here, he will not get a hearing before sixth watch is called.”

 

Gimli had listened up when he heard the treasury mentioned but walked on, this sounded like some or other debate with a trader about the coin change. With a heavy heart he climbed the long stairs to the palace, studying the guards along the front stairs. The palace had never been tightly guarded, King Thorin disliked that and Gimli had expected the guard tightened up and redoubled at the very least after what had happened. But the number of guardposts had not changed at all, only when Gimli arrived at the entrance hall he realized the difference – the guards had not increased in number but instead of the regular guard that should have been at their posts, Gimli saw warriors of the _Wolfguard_ at their posts, they had broken the very best fighters, to secure the building. Craning his neck Gimli noticed crossbow – archers at strategic points on the walkways behind the large statues, _Icehawks_ from the Reach, he guessed, fierce and unthinkingly loyal.

 

“Someone studying my guards like that, I’d usually have in for a talk about his curiosity,” a voice from behind him startled Gimli. When he turned around he found himself face to face Bladvila, who must have been on an inspection round. The Captain of the Palace guard stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest, his eyes sizing Gimli up like he was assessing the threat potential. Gimli’s eyes widened when he saw the angry red scars at Bladvila’s throat, two fresh red lines criss-crossing along his throat. How close had Bladvila come to die in the latest attempt on the Royal Family? It might explain why he had not been dismissed from his post, Gimli rationalized, or why he had not offered his life in penance for failing to protect Lady Dís and her grandchildren.

 

“I am here to request an audience,” he replied, trying to sound casual. “I was startled to see what companies Dwalin had broken out to fill up your losses, Bladvila.”

 

The warrior with the wild black ponytail tilted his head as he cast Gimli a questioning glance. “An audience, at this time of the day? They are about to call sixth watch.”

 

Gimli realized it was an odd time. Usually an audience with King Thorin was an easy thing, seeing Fíli even easier, and it was possible even at this time – only that it had to be crisis of some proportion to not be told to come back next morning. “I know it is late,” he grumbled. “but it is important. If you could have someone sent to Prince Fíli and ask if he would be so friendly to see me, I will not bother you much longer.”

 

Bladvila gestured him to walk up the last stairs and led him to the guard-room by the main entrance, waving a warrior who had been in the hall closer, when he came closer his blond hair betrayed another _Icehawk._ “Kór, we have a late request – check situations with Ánar first and if it’s a negative, then escalate to Thalur and tell Gero that the window on the East side might need another check.” The blond warrior nodded curtly and was off within the moment. Bladvila pointed to one of the empty seats in the guardroom. “Sit, this might take a while.”

 

Sitting down Gimli tried to rein in his temper and not grumble. With all that had happened it made sense that the guard was more careful with odd requests, even if they came from noble Houses. “I take it Ánar and Hlevar are still here and not with Prince Kíli?” he asked, trying to make conversation with Bladvila, who stood leaning against the doorway, his stance guarded.

 

“Aye, Prince Kíli assigned them to protect his brother and his family. I am glad to have them, because there is no question to their loyalties.”

 

The words made Gimli shiver, had he just heard an odd note in Bladvila’s voice? Had the Captain of the Palace guard just indirectly told him that he found those two orphan boys more reliable than others… than Gimli himself? The young warrior tried hard to keep a lid on his temper, trying to not read too much into Bladvila’s words. “You sound distrustful,” he still grumbled.

 

“Are you surprised?” Bladvila’s stance relaxed just a little, and Gimli was wondering if the older warrior was offering a gap in his defense on purpose to test him. “Nori might be screaming out his voice in the dungeons, but what Dwalin is getting from him, is more to know than anyone might want to hear. I have to admit – Dwalin really learned how to make a prisoner talk quickly when he served in the East.”

 

Gimli’s hands curled up to fists, the mental image Bladvila’s words conjured up was not a pleasant one. And he was sure that the warrior did it deliberately, to either test or tease him. Why? Was there already suspicion on his family? No, if it was Bladvila would have thrown him into the dungeons for interrogation.

 

“Bladvila, stop harassing the boy,” a deep voice rumbled outside the doorway and while it only startled Gimli, Bladvila whirled around and bowed swiftly.

 

“I had sent a messenger with his request, my Lord…”

 

“I know, Bladvila, I met Kór before he could find Ánar. Leave my son to his rest, I will hear what Gimli has to say.” Thorin Oakenshield seemed slightly bemused that he still could easily be three steps ahead of his palace guards.

 

Gimli had risen and bowed deeply, his heart was hammering in his chest. How should he even reveal what he had found? Especially with Bladvila still present? But Thorin simply waved him to follow. “We will talk elsewhere.” He simply said, before turning back to Bladvila. “Go to Dwalin, Bladvila – I want to see all the results personally, before you take any further steps. Make sure it is so.”

 

The Captain of the Guard bowed and left at once. And Gimli was pointed to follow Thorin deeper into the Palace. For a short moment he wished he could go with Bladvila – explaining to the guard would be so much easier than explaining to his King. But he told himself, he had a duty to fulfill and he would do it. He was not a dwarfling anymore who could hide behind his father.

 

TRB

 

The ropes flew and landed around the stone bitts as two of the elves jumped off board to secure the ship alongside the stone quay. The gales were still strong but the rain had faded from a gushing downpour to a softer rain for the time being. Kíli thanked Helegion before he and Anvari went off the ship. In the darkness he had already spotted the lights of something that had to be a settlement up the steep cliffs. Beside the light of one of white crystal lights on the pier he saw three familiar figures, he had hardly expected to meet the moment they were off the ship. Two were elves, whom he had last seen in Moria and beside them stood a blond dwarf warrior. “Kíli,” Fionn greeted him warmly. “it seems so like you having to make the crossing in the worst weather.”

 

They greeted with a quick warrior’s clasp. “Fionn, it is good to meet outside of an Orc den for a change. But here is someone you should meet. This is Anvari, son of Fíli,” He gently squeezed Anvari’s shoulder. “and this is Fionn, son of Skar, your grandfathers were brothers.” Among dwarves an older cousin almost automatically became an Uncle, at least until the children were old enough to address them as adults, and even then it often remained at _Uncle._

 

Before Fionn could respond a new coughing fit shook Anvari, his small body convulsing in pain. Kíli squatted down to hold him before he could collapse on the stone pier. The dark haired one of the elven brothers joined him. “How long has he been like this?” he asked.

 

“Seven weeks, I used the last of Elrohir’s potions when we came over windborne pass,” Kíli explained, Anvari was shaking in pain and would not respond to anything. “he felt better while we were on the water and I had hoped…”

 

“He felt better on the boat?” Canó asked, interrupting his words. “Get those boots of him and bring him down to the water.”

 

“He is already soaked from the deluge,” Kíli objected, even as he began to follow the instruction and helped Anvari to slip off the heavy travelling boots and socks he wore. “he is freezing.”

 

“A cold we can deal with, Kíli, his condition is another matter entirely.” Canó told him firmly. “Carry him to water, keep his feet away from the pier.”

 

Puzzled Kíli obeyed, carrying the small dwarfling down to the beach where the waves were still driven against the shoreline. Even while he carry Anvari the coughing became less volatile and the fit began to fade a little. When they were standing on the sand of the beach he set Anvari down, so his feet were in the rushing waters, always ready to pick him up at once. But instead of collapsing again, Anvari stood on his own, the fit fading away entirely. He breathed deeply. “ _Kal tak tumar,”_   It feels good. He said softly.

 

Kíli was about to translate what Anvari had said, but Canó simply squatted down opposite of Anvari, to be on eye level with the child. “The water makes you feel better?” he asked in Khuzdul, his accent was too musical for any dwarf but it was clear and understandable the tongue of the dwarves. Kíli looked back to Russandol, who smiled amused.

 

“We both speak your tongue, Kíli, and we do not parade that fact because the language is sacred to your people.” He said in the dwarven tongue as well.

 

When he spoke Kíli picked up the difference between the brother’s speech – Rú’s Khuzdul sounded more natural, almost fluent and with the inflections of the Reach, while Canó’s Khuzdul sounded much like ancient Belegost-Khuzdul, with its overcomplicated grammar and almost flowery expressions.

 

But Anvari had understood what Canó was saying, even the ancient dwarven was not so far removed from modern Khuzdul to not be understood. “Aye, the waters take the pain away, they feel good – like the wind. Stone hurts.”

 

Canó gently touched the dwarfling’s shoulder with his slender hand. “The sea has helped many, little Anvari,” he said gently. “we will help you to feel better, but I need you to be really brave for us. Can you do that?”

 

Anvari nodded, if shyly. “Do… do I have to fight monsters, like the other Anvari did?”

 

Kíli saw the smile on the Elf’s face, whatever else there was to be said about the brothers, they were no strangers to dealing with children. “No, but there is a sea cavern about half a mile along this coast, we need to go there. It is an eerie place and you must not be afraid.”

 

“The sea cave?” Rú asked. “so it is…?”

 

“It is exactly what Elrohir feared it would be, though I have no idea how it could ever happen and we have little time to waste. Fionn – run back to Artaraumo and have Elgir open the tunnel to the sea-cave, we will be bringing a very exhausted patient when we are done.”

 

Canó rose and extended a hand to Anvari, to Kíli’s surprise his usually shy nephew took it as they began walking through the restless waters at the shoreline towards the cave. He and Rú followed. “So you truly know the poison?” he asked as they walked. Relief and worry still warring in his heart, if the brothers knew what had happened, could they help Anvari?

 

“It is something neither of us expected to see in this day or age,” Rú replied, his eyes following his brother and the dwarfling, their conversation remained inaudible thanks to the wind, but the child had found a measure of trust in his brother, which was good with the proceedings that lay ahead of them. “and even if we can the extract the black blood from him, it already has wrought changes that your nephew will need help to face.”

 

“Is that why he reacts so strangely to the sea of all things?” Kíli asked, his worry returning full force. “I do not care what it takes, I’ll do whatever necessary to get it done.”

 

Rú met his eyes, cold blue eyes meeting black, in some ways Kíli’s House had remained unchanged in the past ages. “The poison would eventually kill your nephew – it never fails,” he explained, at least the shortest possible version. “but it’s true deathly capability rests in the fact that it never was entirely a poison in the first place. The Black Blood will change those exposed to it, change their bodies and minds fundamentally. And… your people would say it awakens the flame in them.”

 

Kíli’s eyes widened and finally he understood. “That’s why it is lethal for adults – their bodies cannot adjust to the magic set free in them, the flame would kill them. Like a dwarf coming into his talent too late. But… Russandol – Anvari is too young. I was already too young when I manifested the flame and he… he is only a little dwarfling.”

 

“Nevertheless that is what happened, and the talent woken so brutally in him has changed his own alignment with the elements, the stone hurts him and the sea eases his pain. You did exactly the right thing to remove him from your Mountain, inside Erebor he would not have lasted half as long.” Rú stopped, facing Kíli. “He can still make it, Kíli, he can survive what was done to him – we would not toy with your hopes. It will be a long and painful way, to free him from the Black Blood at first and then to teach him to deal with the changes wrought onto him. But it can be done.”

 

They arrived at a small cove, where a crystal cave opened to the water, the waves were washing into the shimmering cavern, in the moonless storm night, the only light that made the crystal shine, were two hovering pale lights at the entrance. Canó turned to Kíli. “The ritual requires a close blood relative to join the victim in the circle, it is not without danger, but it is the only way to ground Anvari in the existence he already has.”

 

Kíli met the elf’s dark eyes steadily. “I said I’d do whatever it takes, and if you need me in that ritual, I will join it. I share a soul bond with Anvari’s father, my brother Fíli, in case this is relevant.”

 

“It is, it will allow you to tie all the better with Anvari – the poison is destroying his being, his existence in this world while it is changing him. It was made to convert captives to the Shadow, and the side-effects might never have been intended.”

 

“It is cutting away his existence?” Kíli asked, suddenly remembering Boromir having lost his ties to his old life through some ritual – what kind of risk had he taken to find his way back to the past?

 

“Correct, through you we will anchor Anvari in his links to the world, and extract the Black Blood.” Canó pointed to the cave. “Come, we better do not waste time.”

 

Inside the cave, Kíli saw that the crystal had been carefully cut and polished, to form a circle. At the bottom stood the sea-water, as the waves washed into the cave’s mouth, and the shining crystals were mirrored in the dark flood. Canó pointed them to go to the very middle of the circle. “Kneel in the circle, Kíli, keep a tight hold of Anvari, do not let him collapse into the water.”

 

Kíli led Anvari into the circle, guiding him to kneel down, and then kneeling down behind him, hands on Anvari’s shoulders. For a moment he felt bad about it – this was traditionally the place of the father, presenting his son to his testing, and it would be Fíli’s place to do this, but from afar, from the other side of the world, he felt Fíli’s calming presence. There never were words in their conversations, only feelings and echoes, but this time he could almost attach words to the feelings conveyed. _Do what is needful._

 

Looking to the side Kíli saw Rú standing to one side, Canó to the other and his own senses felt the crackling of arcane power in the air, as the brothers began to sing – he could not make out the words, only the tune, a song of such power as he had never heard before. For a moment he wondered what would happen, then he felt it, an echo and a pain like nothing he had ever known – and it had only just begun.

 

TRB

 

“You came across this by accident?” Thorin asked, his hands still held the letter Gimli had brought with him. They were in Thorin’s study and Gimli sat uneasily in the chair Thorin had pointed him to.

 

“Aye, I assumed it to be a note from my father, or I would not have read it,” Gimli explained, he had spoken of his find and all that he had concluded for the last hour and he felt drained. “I… I still cannot see why she would do this… or I can, but I still can’t believe she would really go so far.”

 

“Do you?” Thorin asked him, the King stood, leaning against the fireplace, his keen eyes directed at the younger dwarf and Gimli found it hard to not openly squirm under the gaze. “Why do think she did this?”

 

Gimli looked at him surprised; it was obvious, was it. “Ambition – she never believed Kíli to be your proper heir and she hoped to gain stature through marrying him off to someone from her extended connections… and I think she hoped to see you married too.”

 

Thorin’s smile was cold, sardonically. “She wanted to rule this Mountain, if not directly, then indirectly, through maneuvering one of her nieces or cousins into the role of the Queen and not long after the Mountain would have been in need of a King.”

 

“No… the letter never said anything about murdering you!” Gimli was horrified by the idea alone. “It never said a word… it spoke of Fíli, his children…”

 

“Of several vaguely planned murders then,” Thorin pointed out.

 

“…but not of you.” Gimli insisted, but then he noticed how calmly Thorin had reacted, he had not even been surprised at the news Gimli had brought him. He had not been angry either, he had simply listened to all Gimli had to say, encouraging him to go on, when Gimli stumbled over his own words. “You… you already knew.” The conclusion came down on him like an icy wave of water, so their family must have been implicated already, names must have been named, by Nori or others. Which explained Bladvila’s guarded reaction, why he had been given Gimli the chance to show himself as a traitor. Bladvila had expected him to be one.

 

“I have known of her ambitions for many years now,” Thorin said. “from before we returned to Erebor to be precise. Which is why I was glad she disapproved of my sons so much, it reduced her chances of influencing them, but she was harmless until we returned here – she believed that the modest rule of Cardemir was not worth scheming for. After we returned here, she was not so subtle as she believes she was.”

 

Gimli hung his head, when he realized that his mother might be the reason his family had never been regarded as quite trustworthy for decades now. “But my father… you trusted him on the quest, with the task of head of treasury…” he stumbled over the words, trying to make sense of it all.

 

“Glóin is a good dwarf,” Thorin’s expression softened a little. “and he would not know a plot if he met it in the market and it challenged him to a duel. I have already sent for him and Óin – and I am glad to see you too are a loyal dwarrow, Gimli. It gives me hope that we can root this treachery from the Mountain and heal from the wounds it already dealt us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	24. The grave of silence

Tendrils of pure light were enveloping Kíli and Anvari, the song they could still hear from afar was a crescendo of power, of sheer unadulterated strength, but being exposed to it was agony. Kíli’s vision blurred, the lights causing specks to dance in his vision. He could still see Anvari, the dwarfling knelt in the water, his head thrown back in the storm of energy, why he did not scream his throat raw with the agony was something Kíli could not fathom. But that was not all he saw – he saw Anvari, standing to their left, older, nearly as old as Kíli, clad in a ragged armor, his face twisted into a hideous visage of cruelty and… depravity. There was nothing of the boy he knew in that dark figure. The apparition seemed to grin at Kíli, the contorted features twisting into an anticipatory grin.

 

Focusing like he had learned over the years, Kíli forced himself to control the pain, to not let go of Anvari and remain between him and the creature apparition. He would not allow this thing to get to Anvari. This rite, no matter how much pain it brought him, the rite must not fail and thus he drew the pain inwards, making it apart of himself. _What must be endured, can be endured. All pain can be borne._ He kept reminding himself. Little Anvari steadied a little, though the storm of power grew only stronger around them.

 

A fresh wave was driven into the cave, washing over them, the stones under them grumbling in echo to the powers the two elven voices invoked. Kíli accepted the fresh pain, the searing agony swiping through his bones; it felt like the very bones in his body were twisting so strongly that he wondered why he did not hear them snap. Another picture of Anvari took form to his right, not the twisted figure this time, but a slender, almost fragile looking young fighter, sword in both hands and a fearful glance at the skies that Kíli could not see. _We are going to die. This is the end of the world and we all will die…_ Kíli could hear the fear in this Anvari’s voice. He wanted to reach out to him, to reassure him but when he even though of it, he felt a hot pain, like pure fire on his back, like the branding long ago only much stronger, much fiercer. He wanted to pull back, to shy away from the pain, but he knew that the only way to do this lay in facing the pain.

 

With more focus he reached out to the other figure, ignoring the pain and his own fears of it. The apparition smiled at him, before it slowly faded away. Flames rose around them, a wall of blue and golden flames, licking up from the water towards the stone ceiling. When the pain returned it was more subtle this time, but all the more effective. At first it was nothing more than a burn on his skin, like acid slowly eating into his muscles and it spread throughout his body, until he felt like he was consumed from the inside, like something was burning him up, from his very core.

 

The song was softening now, but the power it still carried was more than ever before. Beyond the flames rose an arch of golden light, before it Kíli saw another apparition. The Anvari who stood there, was nothing like the two before  - a young warrior, calm and confident, an aura of power, of an awoken and tempered flame echoing around him and above him Kíli saw the Raven in flight. _Whatever heights this boy climbs to, you carved the path for him._ He heard an oddly familiar voice whisper.

 

 _Whatever heights he reaches, it is because he chose this path, no matter how hard it got._ Kíli heard his own voice, or maybe it was only his own thoughts. Though, here and now he knew – he knew he could carve that path for Anvari, help Anvari to find the strength to follow his destiny. All he had to do was to reach the golden arch with Anvari, right through the flames.

 

Slipping one arm under Anvari’s arm, the other under his knees, he lifted the dwarfling up. Anvari was awake and aware but not in pain, it seemed like the powers that were wracking Kíli’s body did not hurt him at all. “Can’t go there… the flames won’t let me,” he whispered.

 

Kíli cuddled him close. “Don’t be afraid, we are dwarrow, we are made of stone and born from fire, the flame loves us.” He managed to smile, as he walked towards the wall of fire. With every step he took, fresh pain soared inside him, like his own flame was trying to burn him alive, he nearly stumbled but forced himself to walk steadily. The pain became worse, if there was even a muscle inside him that did not hurt he’d know it. Kíli welcomed the pain like an old friend, not one he’d always want to see but one he had known for long enough to trust. Behind them appeared the Shadow-Anvari again, howling in anger as Kíli stepped into the flames, willing them to obey him, like his own forge-fire did. They touched his skin, their caress searing and painful but they did not burn him. Shielding Anvari from them, Kíli passed them, while behind him rose the shrieks of Shadow-Anvari as the flames consumed him.

 

The golden arch shone brightly upon them, and suddenly Kíli felt Anvari’s presence as strongly as his own, like both their lives, their heartbeats were touched by the bright light. They stepped through the arc and out of the cave.

 

Outside the storm had ceased, a fiery autumn sun rose above the seas. Kíli’s first glance was to the dwarfling on his arm, but Anvari blinked happily up to him. “It does not hurt any more…” he said, his smaller hand reaching for Kíli’s. “but I am so tired.”

 

“Then you should sleep,” Kíli felt his own strength give in, his knees buckled and only just managed to kneel down on the stones of the coast, still keeping a tight hold onto Anvari. The sun touched Anvari’s face, the sickly pale color had faded away, though he still was very faint. But when the sun touched upon Anvari’s hair Kíli gasped, the blueish-black locks had mellowed a little, turning them into a very darkish-brown, that still was almost black. But instead of the cool blue tinge they had always had, they now had the warmer brown shade that Kíli had come to associate with Thorin.

 

The air around them seemed to splinter and fall away, and only now Kíli heard the rushing of the sea and wailing of the gulls above the water. The last echoes of the song passed from them. Anvari closed his eyes, falling into a deep, healthy sleep, his small head snuggled against Kíli’s shoulder.

 

Steps closed in from behind and Canó squatted down beside them. “Kíli… Manwe be praised you live.”

 

“It takes more than a little pain to kill a dwarf,” Kíli found his voice had returned to him. “Anvari… is he… will he be…”

 

“The dark blood has passed from him and he will heal,” Canó said reassuringly, “though he will need to learn to control his flame, his focus. But you… when I realized that you were pulling Anvari’s pain into yourself, I feared you would not make it through the rite.”

 

Kíli registered the words numbly, the exhaustion catching up with him. He had never seen such a storm of power, never believed that any being in the world could wield such power safely. Now he understood why these two – why their house had been such a legend. His head was spinning as his vision began to blur out.

 

TRB

 

“That hag – that treacherous little wench!” Gloin’s rage would have shaken Gimli any other day, today he just wished his father would rein in his temper, at least in front of King Thorin. The elder dwarf had at first been disbelieving but after seeing the letter, his rage had turned to his wife. “I always thought she simply was the nagging type… nag nag nag Thorin has no real beard…. Nag nag nag Kíli is not a proper Prince… I never thought she did anything else but chatter.”

 

“I know, Glóin, I knew you were unaware of her connections,” Thorin was remarkably calm, that eerie calm began to get to Gimli. It was so cold – or was this how a King was supposed to deal with such treachery?

 

Óin, who had listened quietly and re-read the letter three times, sighed. “My King – it appears that I have to take care of some cleaning in my house. I wish I had been aware earlier… or do you wish her to be brought to judgment?”

 

Gimli’s heart nearly stopped at Óin’s cool words, up until now he had not thought on the consequences these discoveries would have for his mother. Treason was a crime paid for with death, and if her doings became known in an official trial their whole family would be affected. Dwarves were very peculiar about treason – treason and oath breaking were two unforgiveable crimes. A dwarrow might have a perfectly good reason to commit a murder, theft could be forgiven after a whipping, but treachery and oath breaking… they were crimes that counted against the entire house. Being the son of an oath breaker mean a dwarrow would never been trusted, such things ran in the blood, and bad blood always came out in the end.

 

But even if it never came to an official trial, if by a spell of undeserved generosity, King Thorin would allow themto deal with the matter inside their own house, it would mean a trial by their head of House, which was Óin, and the sentence would be the same. Only no one would know why, probably a rumor of adultery would be spread, while damaging not as dangerous. But in any case, the death of Grís would be the consequence. His stomach nearly turned, she was a traitor, she had plotted to see the Royal Family murdered… but still, the idea of seeing her executed was more than he could take.

 

“If it was only your family, Óin, I would leave that matter entirely in your hands,” Thorin said. “I have no wish to see your family humiliated through the actions of one over-ambitious wife. But until I know how far this treachery reaches, I cannot make a final decision on their fate.”

 

So the hunt for all those involved was not yet finished and once the names were revealed, the King would decide how to deal with the traitors. Gimli closed his eyes, willing his stomach to stop churning. His mother was amongst those who would face execution, or a shameful banishment… but that was the most he could expect, it was rare that traitors were only banished, the last case had been Béran, who’s guilt had not been proven to King Thrór’s satisfaction.

 

Óin inclined his head. “Then, with your permission, I would like to speak to my brother – he may have to consider a divorce.”

 

Gimli groaned, now that was maneuvering of the finest again – divorcing Grís would create gap between the family and her guilt, not enough to protect them from all the scorn but enough to not have them labeled traitors by association. And divorcing a life mate was shameful amongst dwarrow too – it was exceedingly rare and usually meant that two partners separated to the different ends of Middle Earth and never met again in life. But of course it was also a political tool.

 

Before Thorin could answer a firm knock on the door interrupted the discussion. Gimli noticed that Thorin must be familiar with the particular knock, or maybe he just knew whom to expect. “Come!” Thorin called out.

 

The heavy door opened and Gimli wondered if he should be surprised to see Bladvila walk in, the Captain of the Palace Guard was probably in the thick of unraveling this plot. Gimli paled, recalling how Bladvila had tested him – the other dwarrow probably had known all that had been known to Thorin about Grís and Grísela’s involvement. His eyes widened when he saw that Bladvila was not alone, but brought another dwarrow with him. A youth, if Gimli judged that right – smaller than Bladvila, with the lighter stature of a dwarrow still below his seventies. Chestnut hair framed a pale, finely chiseled face, that had yet to show true traces of a beard. His hands clung around a stone box, and he was more than apprehensive. Gimli saw Bladvila’s armored hand on the boy’s shoulder, either a catch or simply to encourage him.

 

“Is that him?” Thorin asked, his voice becoming notably more friendly.

 

The young dwarrow bowed deeply. “Svadi, son of Saerin, at your service,” his voice was steady, in spite of his obvious nervousness. Gimli frowned. Saerin – that was one of Dáin’s advisors, Uncle to Grís and Grísela, one of his daughters, Sif, had been amongst Grísela’s price ladies to seduce Thorin at the coronation. Her second attempt, aimed at Prince Kíli had seen her palmed off to a common Broadbeam builder and married below her station. He had vaguely been aware that Saerin had a younger son, but beyond having met the quiet, earnest boy on one or two family occasions. Gimli did not quite understand why Svadi was here, he was from the Iron Hills, his loyalties should not tie him to Thorin – or had Bladvila applied pressure to get the boy to cooperate?

 

Thorin gestured Svadi to step closer. “Sit, you will have much to say, if all Bladvila told me is true.”

 

The young dwarrow came closer, carefully putting the stone box he had been carrying on the desk. “I got these before I left – Lady Grísela is yet feeling safe, she believes her husband’s wrath will only reach those noble Houses in the Iron Hills, that Nori knows the names for. But she might try to destroy these… they are proof beyond my word.” He carefully traced his fingers over the stone ornaments, realigning the depicted chess figures in another pattern, and the box sprang open. It was filled with scrolls and letters, writings.

 

“The entire conspiracy in their own writings,” Thorin’s stern mien lit up in a smile. “this is more than I dared hope you could provide, in spite all the warnings and information you gave in the past, Svadi.”

 

This time Gimli did not manage to keep silent. “He has been your spy? A slinking eavesdropper in your name? He is but a child…” he growled, jumping to his feet, shooting a glare at Svadi as well. “and you should have known that those lurking and listening have no honor.”

 

Surprisingly Svadi braced himself, meeting Gimli’s eyes coldly. “Honorable like your Lady Mother’s? I have seen three murders by her hand alone, and that’s only those I was forced to witness. I’ll rather be a spying eavesdropper, at least I know where I stand.”

 

Glóin too was about to bark something at the youth and at his son, but Thorins sharp “Silence!” interrupted that. He cast a sharp glance at Gimli, then at Glóin. “as you have witnessed this, I will have you stay and hear the full truth. It will not be easy for your, but it cannot be helped. Bladvila, begin.”

 

“My King… is it wise to reveal Svadi’s story? It will mean we cannot send him back…” Bladvila pointed out.

 

“This ends here, Bladvila, and after bringing us the entire correspondence of that snake Grísela I will not risk him by sending him back.” Thorin said firmly. “And I would also like to hear how it all began.” He looked at Svadi.

 

The youth inclined his head. “It all began with the death of Lord Arvid of Silverdeep Crossing, twenty years ago. He had been loudly   opposing Lord Dáin’s refusal to support your people in their retaking of Erebor. The evening after the envoy to Lake Town returned to the Iron Hills, my brother had to deliver a report on the eastern border to Lord Arvid. But he was held off by the head scribe so he asked me to go in his stead. When I came to Silverdeep Hall I kept being sent back and forth between places by the servants for at least an hour, until I eventually ditched them and went to Lord Arvid’s study to deposit the report and get back home. I did not think of anything by that time, except of getting out of my task quickly. When entered the study and found it empty I placed the scroll on the desk, but at that moment the side-door of the study opened and I quickly hid behind one of the heavy bookshelves. The figure that entered wore a black cloak and was completely veiled, though the hands were smaller and more slender than those of many a dwarrow. The intruder did not see me, and pulled the contents of a flask into a goblet on Lord Arvid’s desk, within moments the figure was gone and only a minute after Lord Arvid came in. He went to his desk and drank the entire goblet in one gulp…”

 

Svadi sighed. “He fell over dead the very same moment. I… I grabbed the report and ran, returning to my brother with the report of what I had seen.” He bowed his head. “The next morning it was announced that Lord Arvid had died in his sleep and when my brother went to Lord Dáin with his doubts, he too found his death soon after.”

 

He looked up again, his gaze steadying. “Five years later I witnessed a similar incident when Jargol Coldstone – another friend of Erebor – died during the coronation festivities.”

 

“He was old, he died in his sleep!” Glóin interjected.

 

“Exactly, he died in his sleep, and fate had it that I again had been close by to witness what happened, because Jargol had requested something to be brought to him in a hurry. I was not supposed to be there, in the room by happenstance. And this time I managed to snag the flask that had been used to poison Jargol.”

 

Bladvila looked at Glóin. “That night Svadi came to me, knowing he could not trust anyone in the Iron Hills. If he went to Lord Dáin, he might end up like his brother. And I asked him to help us ferret out the entire extent of these murders, to find out all he could.”

 

Gimli sat down heavily, imagining years of spying, of listening, always risking his life, always ready to run… he did not want to imagine such a filthy life. “What you said of my mother… is it true?”

 

“The three were only the ones I saw with my own eyes, though I have only proof beyond my word for two,” Svadi told him.

 

“And you brought us the entire conspiracy in their own letters,” Thorin said. “which is more proof than most likely anyone will want to see. What you did was very brave.”

 

TRB

 

It was the strangest place Kíli had ever seen – after seeing Rivendell and more of Mirkwood than he liked, he had assumed he knew what an elven settlement should look like. Only that Himring was a regular fortress city, with high stone walls built against the steep sides of a cliff. It was beautiful, but not in that over-artistic, almost playful style he had seen elsewhere. It had a nearly comforting grimness. After two days of sleep, Kíli was back at his feet, while Anvari still slept, healing from the long ordeal. Kíli was glad he had been able to go outside and stand on one of the ancient bastions, the elves living in this place did not pay him any heed.

 

“The way you look at the skies, one might wonder if you plan on flying,” a familiar voice cut into his thoughts. Fionn came up the old battlements. “it is good to see you finally awake. You must have been exhausted from that journey – not to mention the rite.”

 

Kíli was glad for Fionn’s company, talking to another dwarf, someone who was family, felt good. “You would probably know the rite?” he asked, remembering that Fionn had gone through the dragonblood poisoning long ago.

 

“Aye, not in the full strength of course – the blood that touched me was diluted, Mahal be thanked for that.” He leaned against the old battlements. “I am relieved to hear Anvari is free of the poison. The rest… will come.”

 

The awoken flame, Kíli remembered. Anvari’s innate talent – or maybe even a talent he should never had – had been woken years, decades before it’s time, and Anvari would have to learn to control it. “Can… can it be done?” Kíli asked. “I mean… the same happened to you, and you were very young too.”

 

Fionn turned his head, the autumn sun shining on his blond mane of hair. “Of course it can be done, Kíli. It will not be an easy path for Anvari and he may always have some talents that our people believe strange or unnatural – but if he has a family that does not cast him away, and that will love him no matter what, he can make it through this.”

 

The words startled Kíli a little, what he knew of Fionn’s story was very short – how he had come into the peak, how his father had died and how Russandol had raised the dragon blooded children. But what he just said echoed a pain, a loss of something. “Of course we’ll always love Anvari, he did not ask for this change wrought upon him. You… you seem afraid I might not?”

 

The other dwarf looked past Kíli and out on the sea deep below. “When I began to control my abilities, when I began to understand what I had turned into… I began to wonder if I even knew what I was, what kind of monster. I was young and stupid, believing a lot of idiot things too… but if not for Rú who caught me when I was falling, who believed that I was right, exactly the way I was, I might have walked out on the ice to find my end.” His gaze focused again and the mask of the calm warrior snapped back into place. “And we do not know yet what kind of skills Anvari might develop – sometimes it can be scary.”

 

“He was seeing things, which reminded me of what you once said about your skills,” Kíli said. “had you not trusted us to know a little about you… I might never have thought of making the connection.” He reached for Fionn’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “I am glad you are here… to help me with Anvari. You know what he is going through… and I want to help him, but hardly know how.”

 

Fionn looked at Kíli, like so often in their few meetings over the years he was amazed and a little shy of the family his Uncle had been bonded to. He loved them, they were amazing dwarrow and the way they had reached out to him, had made keeping a distance even harder. He had chosen to do so, because of his own friendships, and because deep down he wondered if they would still be so open if they could look behind his carefully maintained warrior façade. If they knew the full extent of change the dragonblood had brought to him. Yet, Kíli had to face the same on another scale – his little nephew being poisoned by the pure taint. And Fionn had little doubts that Kíli would try to do right by the little dwarfling and he might have a heart great enough to weather the challenges this would bring. “Be there for him, let nothing you see scare you away and the rest will come by itself,” he said encouragingly. “if Anvari knows you will not run from whatever changes he undergoes, if he can come to you with it, it will be half the battle already won. The rest will be learning control and focus.”

 

For a moment Fionn’s eyes shone with an absent expression, then he pushed away from the stone battlements. “We better head inside, the little one should wake up soon.”

 

TRB

 

 _Treason is the one crime that will leave all it touches bloodied._ Thorin well recalled that statement of his grandfather after Béran’s banishment, but only now he understood to the fullest extend what the old King had tried to tell him. The full scope of the conspiracy, revealed from the letters and all the other proof accumulated was reaching farther than he had ever wished to know. He was still relieved to find nearly none of his friends and followers truly implicated, unhappy cases like Glóin and his family aside, those he had believed in had proven true. It was a small kernel of relief in the horrid affair, though there had been a number of names from Erebor that still felt like arrows hitting him, when he had read the evidence. The lines ran deeper in the Iron Hills and after presenting his entire knowledge to Dáin, Thorin had seen his cousin and old rival crumble under the load of blood and guilt his wife and her fellow conspirators had gathered together.

 

While Thorin had no doubt that Dáin would recover from the blow dealt to him, and would dish out his own justice in the Iron Hills, dealing with the traitors in Erebor fell to Thorin and it found the burden of that decision heavier than any other decision in his long life. The worst of it all was that justice itself failed at this point – if he brought those who had aided Grís and her cronies inside Erebor to be judged, their families would suffer the price for that. Even those innocent, even their children would carry that stigma. Thorin knew how long Bladvila had carried the stigma of his father’s banishment – in spite of Beran’s return and heroic fight in Azanulbizar. Thorin wished there was a way to change that, but even if all the laws about oathbreakers were significantly changed, the fact remained that no one trusted the blood of an oathbreaker. Dwarves were proud, stubborn and good at carrying grudges.

 

Thorin did not allow himself to think of Dís or little Anvari. If he allowed his rage to influence his decisions, it would do more harm than good. Much as he liked to strangle those traitors with his bare hands, he must think of Erebor as a whole, on how this Mountain was to survive the treachery so deep in their ranks. How he missed Balin in this moment – the old, wise dwarf would have known a way, had some advice to solve this cruel bind, but he was not here – he was sleeping under this Mountain for too many years already. And Thorin did not want to turn to Fíli, who was getting increasingly wise in his advice. Fíli had his own burdens to carry and this one time Thorin did not want to burden him with his worries.

 

 _What would you do old friend?_ He asked in his mind, wondering what Balin would do, how he would solve this crisis. From outside his now empty study he heard Dwalin’s and Bladvila’s voices.

 

“It needs done swiftly, or someone will figure out what truly is happening.” He heard Dwalin’s grumble.

 

The words, the voice stirring a memory, a memory of his own childhood, the very day Thorin’s mother Thulfa had died. Hiding in a corner of the halls he had heard Daroin’s deep voice. “If we do not act swiftly, someone will make the right connection and if it comes out, we have the Mountain fighting each other.”

 

Back the Thorin had not really understood what Daroin was speaking off, he had been a young dwarf still, but he had heard Thrór call for Daroin. And the following night Thrór had sat alone by the fire, staring into the flames, not speaking to anyone until in the morning Daroin had returned. The Captain of the Royal Guard had been calm and composed if pale, when he reported to Thrór. Thorin had only heard one sentence. “It is done.” And it had taken him many years to truly understand what had happened that night.

 

Closing his eyes, Thorin understood now what his grandfather had ordered done so long ago and why. Though he may never learn what all had been involved in his own mother’s death, he knew that the fact that it was still believed to be a sad accident, spoke for itself. Going to the door of the study, he looked outside. “Bladvila, find Bifur, Vár and Alric, and bring them here. Have Kór take your watch.”

 

He considered involving Dwalin as well, his friend was the most loyal soul he had ever met, but no – Dwalin was needed to keep the rest of the Mountain safe until this was over. And until this treachery was uprooted the Mountain needed his watchfulness.

 

Sitting down at the desk Thorin began to write on a clean scroll of parchment, his own hand felt heavier with every line written in precise Khuzdul, with every name he added under the verdict. He had never wished to be forced to pass such grim judgment, but there was a limit and it had been reached. When he was finished he sealed the document.

 

Only half an hour later the four he had called, stood before him. Silently Thorin surveyed them, all four were loyal to him beyond question, each of them had proven it more than once, and they would trust him to make this judgment. They had followed him in darker days and they had kept faith when other hadn’t. He trusted them, they would do what was needful. “You all know what has been haunting the Mountain for so long,” he began to speak, his heart heavy with the words. “and the proof against those who tried to murder my family is overwhelming. Were it presented out in the open, it would rip families apart, plunge innocent children and family members into one judgment with those truly guilty – it would rip the Mountain apart. I have called you here to prevent that.”

 

He could see understanding dawn in Bladvila’s eyes, the warrior not showing any other reaction beyond a short blink, Vár and Alric nodded grimly, they had been involved into hunting down the traitors. That left Bifur, Thorin looked at the old builder, the blacklock dwarf was one of the most reliable friends he had, though many dismissed him for his oddities. “Zar zigan dur,” Bifur said, his voice firm. “A grave of silence.”

 

“Aye,” Thorin’s gaze went back along the line of the four. “Understand that this is not an order – while our law allows for this ruling from a King, I will not force any of you to be the one who carries out so grim a judgment.”

 

There was only a moment of silence, their eyes meeting, then Bladvila spoke up. “We will see it done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	25. How a night ends

The tunnel was deep in Erebor’s southern flank, an abandoned attempt to dig an upper exit to the Mountain hailing back from the early days of Erebor’s foundation, before the main gate had been built. It was nothing but a dead ended shaft now, not too far from the city but not connected to the main city’s stability. When Bladvila brought his axe down on the last of the mighty support beams still standing, he felt a finality to it. He did not think back, not to gathering up the traitors, not to reading them their verdict and not to executing them. Under this lone stone shaft it would end and in years to come records would only show an accident that had taken part in this part of the Mountain. Yanking the axe back he pulled free the support beam, a horrid crack ran through the stone, another followed echoing loudly through the empty tunnel. When the first stones began to fall Bladvila had little time to run, as Bifur had warned him he would. The old builder had shown them how to collapse this section precisely. Running up the shaft, Bladvila felt the ground shake under his feet moments before a wave of air ripped him from his feet and threw him against the wall of the rising tunnel. A loud, deep rumble echoed from the deep as the entire structure behind him collapsed.

 

A hand reached for his arm and he was pulled up to his feet. Bifur had come for him. _“Khal ut talimar?”_ He asked. Are you alright?

 

Bladvila nodded slowly. “Unscathed, Bifur, you warned me the tunnel would collapse swiftly,” he knew he did not need to reply in ancient Khuzdul as well, ever since the axe had been removed from Bifur’s head his understanding of regular languages had become near perfect, though he still was unable to converse in any other than Khuzdul, but to Bladvila this was a matter of respect.

 

“It is not what I meant,” Bifur told him, guiding him to sit on a rock outside the collapsed region. “I can see you are not injured.” The ancient eyes surveyed Bladvila intensely. “I asked if you were alright – with all that happened?”

 

Bladvila looked around. “Where are Vár and Alric?” he asked, noticing that neither of their comrades in this task was present.

 

“I sent them away – in less than half an hour the miners will be here, to see what happened. Finding you and me is not surprising. After all, we were sent to inspect this side for future battlement building,” there was a wink from him. “leave me to do the talking this time. But you did not answer my question, are you alright?”

 

Bladvila bowed his head, knowing that Bifur should do the talking, because his story would make sense and where it did not make sense people would assume that they had either misunderstood Bifur or that the old dwarf had not been right there. “Why shouldn’t I be?” he asked back. “I am simply glad it is over – having some less snakes in the mountain will have me sleep easier.”

 

“Because the necessary things are often the hardest to do,” Bifur replied, squatting down beside him. “and you are pale as a ghost, laddie.”

 

“I haven’t been a lad in a long time, Bifur.” In spite of himself Bladvila smiled, Bifur often managed to do that to him, being fatherly without suggesting Bladvila was still a youth.

 

“You have been a lad too little,” Bifur rose when they heard hastening feet in the tunnel, gesturing Bladvila to remain where he was. He was not surprised to see Bofur and an entire crew of miners come racing towards the site of the collapse. He knew each of them, which would make things easier.

 

TRB

 

When Fíli stirred from his slumber in the hour before dawn Fjalaris feared that it was only another bout of pain that brought her husband back to wakefulness. The previous evening he had collapsed with a pain that was not his, in between bouts of pure agony he had been able to tell her that some kind of rite to cleanse Anvari was performed and Kíli was part of that. Fjalaris shuddered at the thought what her little boy might be going through and if what Fíli felt was only an echo of what Kíli was going through… she did not like that thought of that either. Sending the children away she had remained with Fíli through it all, grateful when he had passed out under the onslaught, because it removed him from the constant pain.

 

“Fíli…” gently she helped him to sit up, when he tried to. “how are you feeling?”

 

“Like I was battered with a troll’s ladle,” Fíli mumbled, and then suddenly he hugged her. “Anvari is fine… I can feel it. Kíli – he is so happy, though he is so tired. He really did it.”

 

Fjalaris embraced her husband holding him tight, relief flooding through her. Her little boy would live, he would survive… everything else they could work out, as long as their children lived. Pulling back she fussed over Fíli. “And you still look exhausted as well. You better take it slow today.”

 

“Can’t,” Fíli pushed himself fully up. “Thorin expected some results on the conspiracy during the night and…”

 

“…and he is the King. You can trust him to deal with that. For once I’d have you think of yourself first.” Fjalaris insisted, she could be as stubborn as the rest of her family if she had to.

 

Fíli took her hands between his. “How about we both eat breakfast and then I go and see Thorin? You had an appointment with Brea later in the day, as I recall? The Trade Quarters…”

 

Fjalaris nodded slowly. “That and a dozen other issues with the city, if it keeps growing like that…” she sighed. “Very well, you win. But I have to find out where Asutri is before we leave. I sent him to bed last night, but I have the nagging feeling that he never made it to his room last night.”

 

“Let me check Thorin’s study and Frérin’s room,” he suggested. “Asutri will be with one of them. He is delighted in having two granduncles now, especially that Frérin had a lot of time for him.”

 

After having dressed and making herself presentable for the day, Fíli swiftly went to check for his son. He noticed that the guard presence was the same as last night – mostly Icehawks who had guard duty around their rooms. Fíli knew that the warriors of the Reach were fiercely protective of him, regarding him as one of their own. The respect they showed him made him sometimes uneasy, as he felt he had done nothing to deserve their high regard. “Kór,” he spoke up when he saw the watch leader. “do you happen to know where Asutri is?” They always knew, they made it a point to never lose sight of the children entirely, not after what had happened.

 

Kór turned to him and bowed hastily. “He is with his Highness, my Lord.” He replied. “He sneaked down to King Thorin’s study the hour past Midnight, and he was allowed to stay.”

 

The answer should not have come as a big surprise for Fíli, he thanked Kór and went down to the next level of the palace to find the boy. He knew Asutri loved his granduncle, but this was not a time to disturb Thorin. When he arrived at the study, he saw Thorin sitting alone by the fire, flickering in the fireplace. On his lap was Asutri, snuggled against him and fast asleep. When Fíli saw Thorin’s smile, the gentle expression in his eyes, he did not have the heart to scold his son for coming here.

 

TRB

 

Canó sat cross-legged on the floor, opposite of the small dwarfling who looked at him with open curiosity. For a child taken from his homeland, separated from his family and brought across half the world into a fortress of strangers, Anvari was remarkably calm. Canó had already found out that the young dwarf was shy, certainly not as open and direct as his Uncles were. Maybe the shy side came from the mother.

 

Anvari tilted his head, dark locks falling to the side of his face. “You said that I had to sit lessons with you,” he asked, “is it like the writing lessons with Mr. Bilbo? I’d rather have one of those… the lessons of Mr. Dwalin are boring.”

 

“What did Mr. Dwalin teach you that was so boring?” Canó held his amusement out of his voice, for the exercise they would soon begin he needed the boy to open up a little, or training would become all the harder.

 

“Hitting things with sticks,” Anvari ducked his head. “Asutri is good at it, and Mr. Dwalin likes it when he does good.”

 

“I did not like sword practice either when I was young, until my brother showed me that it was something much better than just hitting things with sticks, something that required agility and skill.” He could see that his words woke Anvari’s interest a little. He would have to ask Kíli about how the little one’s weapon’s training had gone so far. “But for now you are going to learn something new.”

 

The prospect of learning something new captured Anvari’s interest at once, he sat up straight, trying to mirror Canó’s pose. “What is it?”

 

Carefully Canó placed an orb of clear crystal between them on the ground. “Do you remember that I told you that you needed to learn to focus, so you would stop seeing things?” He asked.

 

“M-hm,” Anvari nodded. “can I put what I see into the orb? Like Harkon hid his dreams inside a crystal?”

 

Someone had taken the time to tell the dwarfling a lot of legends and stories, Canó had already noticed how often Anvari referred to such legends. He found it a rather appealing trait. “No, but the orb will help you to practice your focus. Keep your eyes on it while we practice – always look at it. Now…” he waited a moment until Anvari’s gaze was fixed on the crystal. “imagine standing in a wide dark place, like a huge stone hall where you cannot see the walls – there is nothing but darkness around you, you are standing in a wide void…”

 

On the outside it was not easy to tell when a trainee actually was reaching that first step, but the intense way Anvari’s focused were a hint for Canó that he was taking well to the picture in his mind.

 

“Feel the vastness around you, it stretches far from you… you do not think, you do not feel… like the void, you _are,”_ Canó knew that this state would be hard to reach for Anvari – the full state, the mind calm as an unruffled point took students years to find, luckily it did not need the full focus to proceed. “You see a light flicker in the void, it is small… just a spark….” In the beginning the direct suggestion helped a student to realize the spark was there, later they would know how to find it. “Now… reach out into the darkness, for the spark… you are the void, given shape, you are the void becoming flame…”

 

Anvari’s breath hitched becoming irregular when the spark leaped into completion and he touched his flame, the orb began to shine in a bright, golden light and slowly rose to hover above the ground. His eyes still on the crystal orb, Anvari smiled brightly, raising his hands towards the orb and it began to slowly turn.

 

Canó was glad he had decided on using the orb – it would prevent Anvari from drawing more power than he could handle safely, it was good for his flame was strong – and he had found it with an uncanny intuition, many a student Canó had taught had needed months to ever make the orb shine. But Anvari… he would have had the flame naturally when he became older, only the black blood had woken it early and grown it even stronger. He decided to take this even one step further. “Good,” he praised the child. “now… can you make the light in the orb take form?”

 

The light in Anvari’s eyes became brighter as his gaze followed the orb, suddenly there were blue and golden lights inside and for a moment Canó saw the form of a man – or rather dwarrow – with Ravens swirling around him in the orb, before Anvari gasped, his hands shooting to his chest. The light died and the orb dropped to the floor.

 

Gently the elf, caught the boy, who was shivering. “That was very good, Anvari.” He said gently. “in time reaching for your spark will become second nature to you, and you will learn to always keep the void between you and spark when you do not want to tap into talents. Do you think you can try again?”

 

From the door, much like a guard, Fionn watched as the lesson proceeded, he knew that type of practice – he had done the same training a long time ago, only his task had been making a stone burn. He knew of course that the stone, as well as the orb, were simply links to their flame – dwarves being unable to use active magic, had always to work with a material, to pour the skills into some piece of stone or other materials. But it was the best way to learn control. And where Rú had been a stern, sometimes rough mentor, Canó was of a different type. He was calmer, praising Anvari’s successes and sympathizing with his failures, and then making him do it again, and again, coaxing the very last drop of focus and power out of the boy. After two hours of constant practice, Anvari was soaked in sweat, his arms shaking when he raised them towards the orb, but it took him only moments to make the orb light up or float in the air. A fact that made Fionn shiver – it had taken him weeks to make the stone burn reliably and a year before he could make it float, and once this had been achieved the doorway to his talent – his changes – had been pushed wide open. It seemed Anvari would have to master his focus and his talents at a much faster speed.

 

TRB

 

Bilbo sat in his favorite corner of the library, a small niche with a window that he loved when he needed to think something through. Now that the excitement was over, the danger passed and Fíli had told him that Anvari was getting better, Bilbo had finally found the time to think about something he had wanted to think about for some time already. The something that was plaguing his mind was his ring – the talisman he had found in the cave of the creature Gollum. His conversation with the creature had been entirely short, the thing had been feasting on a dozen of Goblins that Boromir had killed and tossed into the deep, and Bilbo had defended himself to prevent being added to the menu. He could only assume that the creature had once possessed the ring, that or one of its victims had not been saved by the talisman.

 

Ever since Bilbo had used the Ring to become invisible whenever necessary, not that it was all that often. He had become quite adept at sneaking around unseen and unheard. He had never become a burglar, but he could hold his own quite well now, thank you very much. But that was not the reason for his worries – the last few times he had used the Ring, something bad had happened shortly after. When he had used it to scout out the Stonewyrm nesting in Greystone Heights, Kíli had run afoul of a pack of tainted wolves only hours later, using the ring to get through the tunnel of the brigand’s den in Wilderland had resulted in them nearly being sacrificed by a twisted sorcerer… the list went on down to the last incident in Moria. Usually Bilbo would dismiss Moria entirely, as Kíli seemed sure that his own presence had woken Durin’s Bane, only… _only_ that Thirán, Frérin had been in Moria for over a century, so it was highly doubtful that Durin’s Bane would have ignored him for so long. And Bilbo could not imagine Azog or the Easterlings controlling that beast.

 

What kind of beast was that anyway? He would have to research that, maybe he could find out something useful about Durin’s Bane while he was at it. Normally he would ascribe all the incidents he remembered to coincidence, adventures tended to twist and turn like that and the most useless things always happened when one needed them least. But Bilbo had spent enough time around two arcane smiths to know a good deal about the peculiarities of artifacts, and to be aware that many an item off a less-trained crafter’s hand could have unexpected side-effects.

 

For a moment he considered simply taking the Ring to Thorin and ask his advice, the dwarven King was most knowledgeable when it came to the art. He might know what Bilbo was dealing with. No. Bilbo told himself, Thorin had enough worries on his shoulders. With all that had happened, it would be selfish to add to Thorin’s worries with something as banal. So he would have to identify the Ring on his own. Where to begin? The item itself was a Ring obviously, made of gold without any markings and not even a crafter’s seal. Which was highly unusual, most arcane smiths used a mark on their works to as a signature. Thorin’s was a Winter-wolf, Kíli’s was a Raven and that tradition stretched back through the ages and nations, even the crafters from the Black Lands usually had their signs, though these were crude and badly recorded.

 

So either someone who had used no sign on principle, or maybe it was just an apprentice piece that never had been intended to be kept? It would explain oddities for sure. He sighed, not much to go on. Rising from his seat he walked up to Ragnir’s Hall, along the shelves with books on arcane crafting and artifacts. The library of Erebor held an extensive number of works on that topic, reaching from spellsmithing to the creation of magical mirrors. There had to be something here. But what? And where to look for it.

 

Tapping his foot on the floor, Bilbo looked at one shelf that held Brin Deepstone’s _History of Arcane Crafting_ the work was wholeheartedly outdated, having been written before the fall of Moria and it was not short by any stretch of imagination. Brin had tried to encompass the entire history of the art, and had ended up producing 32 fat books before he was killed by Durin’s Bane. Bilbo knew from experience that the books were dry at best, and written in a longwinded, tiring style but they might give him the grounding in the history that he needed to pinpoint the right crafter and his works? Or give him a hint on the right period that had preferred to work with plain rings? Both were possible, and it was not like he needed the answer today. The Ring was safely locked away in the stone chest in Bilbo’s quarters. He had time to find the answer.

 

TRB

 

Kíli had not been that tense since making his journeyman piece decades ago, he was well aware that Rú was watching him work from the other side of the forge. The task should be simple, a dagger blade, curved but with two edges. Nothing he had not done dozens of times, only this time he had to place the smallest amount of enchanting into the weapon, not more than a whiff, just enough to ward the blade against rust. Keeping a tight hold on his focus, Kíli worked, his hammer ringing out and the sound echoing against the walls of the forge. Such a weak form of crafting required precise work, else it would fail.

 

Sweat glistened on his brow, while he put the blade back for reheating. Not that it needed it, ever since he had learned his focus the flames would come and keep the work pieces at whatever temperature he wanted. But the short break allowed him to firmly ascertain he was not pouring more strength into the blade. Looking up he saw the red headed elf watch him and he knew that this was an assessment of how far he had progressed the last fifteen years. Kíli took the tong and continued the work, he knew what Rú could teach him. The books in Erebor held no more than a tantalizing scent of the knowledge the Fëanoreans, but these already bespoke an art and knowledge to rival the skill of the dwarves. And Kíli wanted to learn – not necessarily for the power it would bring, but for the art itself. He loved the work in the forge, he loved being a spellsmith, if he had to choose a path for himself, the warrior and the spellsmith were those from which he would select, neither the Prince nor the Dragonslayer truly appealed. So he had to pass this test – each beat of the hammer followed the rhythm of Kíli’s own heart as his mind reached into the void, finding his flame, allowing only a short contact between the flame and blade, while each new strike of the hammer shaped out the blade and the power he had allowed to flow into the workpiece. His own soul came into contact with the metal and the fire, burning as the hammer reshaped it and Kíli smiled, giving himself over to the process, allowing the fire and the anvil to consume him.

 

Rú had wondered if Kíli had lost his affinity for the art, he had seemed very tense when he began his work on the blade. It was a simple task, something to see how the focus of a student had progressed and how much they were still able to pour into a work. While young talents often had less problems with giving themselves over to their work, once they became older they would change – self-preservation and duties to spouses often took away the willingness to risk themselves to the flame each new time. It would be a pity if Kíli had been such a one, he had held so much promise. Canó might swear that Anvari was the strongest talent he had seen in an age at the very least, and that teaching him would be a pleasure, Rú preferred the kind of talent that could learn to create things of power.

 

He saw Kíli’s expression change, like his mind was going away even as his work continued. The flames rose, greedily grasping for the blade while the dwarf worked on. The light reflected in his eyes, and suddenly Rú could see the bright aura of the flame around him, moments before the true crafting began. Kíli still had the tendency to pour too much power into his work but he had learned control and the bright smile on his face as he shaped the weapon left no doubts – he had not lost his skill nor his love for the process, he had been trying to hold back, to keep control.

 

Satisfied Rú watched as Kíli finished the blade – it would take time to shape him, but time was something they had and he was strong, he had been born for this. And Rú would enjoy teaching him.

 

TRB

 

Another dawn rose behind the eastern horizons, Lachanar had watched the black of the night fade to grey and then slowly the first rays of sunlight break through the blanket of heavy clouds. Sitting cross-legged on one of the battlements, he let his mind relax. He had adjusted quite well to living underground, as he spent a lot of time outside, tracking down problems and hunting after the taint. But this summer had been spent on finding dangers to Thorin and his family, entirely underground. And ever since he had emerged from the dark tunnels Lachanar had felt a longing for the light. So he often awaited the sunrise somewhere high up on the battlements, allowing himself to regenerate.

 

“With your love for high places I wonder why there is no Silvan tribe who became Mountain Elves,” a deep voice rumbled behind him, and Lachanar did not need to turn around to know it was Thorin.

 

“Maybe because they met some scary cave-dwellers by the Mountains and decided to stay away,” he joked, before getting serious again and coming down from the battlement. “Has something happened? Another attack?”

 

Thorin shook his head. “Stay up there, I know you have knack for finding the best view on an entire hillside.” He grabbed the rough wall and joined Lachanar in sitting on the battlements. “I did not come for any traitor-hunting. It is done and it is finally over, Mahal be thanked for that.” He glanced over to Lachanar who had sat down on the stones again. “I promised we would talk about your memories when I came back from rescuing little Thorin.”

 

“It wasn’t necessary, I saw enough to understand that it is secret best kept locked away.” Lachanar replied. “My mind might produce a few more fragments, if I keep hunting for the taint, but I will not try to break the barrier holding them.”

 

Thorin studied him for a long while, remembering their journey through the withered heath together so long ago. Maybe it was a sign of getting old, that he felt it was nearly in another lifetime. “Taking your memories was not my choice, Lachanar, not my choice alone at least. Others felt that it was better to not allow you to remember what you had seen…”

 

“I know,”

 

The Elf’s short answer startled Thorin. “How?” he asked. He couldn’t remember the actual act of removing his memory, could he? It was said, if someone remembered the precise moment the full memories would be restored.

 

 _‘He must forget, Thorin, forget that he was in danger, forget that he was saved, and forget that he even knows this danger exists.’_  Lachanar quoted softly. “I remembered that years ago – I knew it was not by your choice, someone else must have ordered you to do it. I would guess it was King Thrór, though the voice does not sound like him. That leaves…”

 

“My father,” Thorin made a fist – if Lachanar could remember this moment, then he should remember the rest as well. “he was the one to make that demand. But if you remember as much – you should recall the rest as well. It should come back to you…” Suddenly a thought occurred to Thorin, Elves were incredibly skilled at the arts of the mind, like no other people of Middle Earth. “Except… you tried not to remember.”

 

Lachanar looked past him, his eyes following the path of an Eagle high above them. “I knew you had a reason to seal my memories and – I did not try to reclaim them.” He had once lost Thorin’s trust, he did not want to make that mistake again.

 

There was a long silence between them, Thorin shaking his head. “I’d rather you would remember, Lachanar. I doubt you will believe me, but I had no wish for you to forget – to lose a friend too.”

 

Lachanar frowned. “You did not lose my friendship, Thorin, even with the memories gone.” They had been friends right until the day the dragon came – and Lachanar was still glad that he had found the chance to regain Thorin’s friendship, even if it meant banishment from Mirkwood.

 

“I know,” Thorin knew he had phrased this badly. “but… there was a part of you missing, something was gone after your memory was sealed. An aspect of you fled – the elf who told me about how he met Amdir in the valleys of Anduin, the warrior who could recount and debate nearly every battle since the second age – like something of yourself had been sealed away with the memories.” He did not know if an elven mind could fracture like that, Lachanar’s speaking about the second age had often been overshadowed by pain, by loss – a warrior sharing the story of the greatest battle of the last age with a friend.

 

Lachanar closed his eyes, listening inside, letting Thorin’s words resonate with his own mind. He had been aware of the wall in his mind for a while now, and this time he confronted the barrier. It melted away like ice under sunlight, splintering, shards carving into his mind. Memories rose inside him, like shadows from a forest pond. The withered heat… hunting after the wyrm… the shadowed ruins and the open gate, the journey through the dark realm… the lost first city of the dwarves…. The memories began to whirl like a kaleidoscope, away from the deeps to battles and wars, bloodshed in Eriador, Hulsten burning, the war against the dark lands… Amdir dying. _It will take more than an age for you to understand what this kind of slaughter does to our kind, my friend._

 

Slowly Lachanar opened his eyes, the memories settling, missing pieces falling into place. Maybe there had been a part of him that had wanted to forget, to not dwell on the echoes of the past – maybe it had only happened because Thorin was the only one he had truly ever talked to about his journey. Now he understood better, now he knew why he had chosen to leave Mirkwood – it had been a decision made long ago in the darkest deeps of the world. Finally it made all sense.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
> 
> I know this is a bit of a filler chapter and I shouldn’t write with a migraine… but bear with me. There was too much to wind down.


	26. Child of the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Due to trying to align several movie and book timelines I had to adjust/tweak the timelines a bit. The following changes were made: Frodo’s birthdate was moved to accommodate for his younger looks in the movie, his parent’s death will also occur at a later date, to have him roughly at the same age. Boromir’s birthdate was moved by 2 years and Aragorn’s/Thorongil’s time in Gondor was shortened (the attack at Umbar happened earlier), to ensure that Thorongil was long gone from Gondor by the time Boromir was born. Ecthelion’s death might also see a move by a year or two. Most of these tweaks are minor, and I only mention them for my attentive, canon-loving readers, to know what I am doing. THANKS!
> 
> Again I should note that I am playing around with some events of the First Age, I can only hope I found a good balance between canon and my own twists and interpretations.

TA 2980

 

Hastily running feet echoed in the wide hallway outside of the door, Denethor knew that the servants usually moved noiselessly through the halls of the citadel. If they rushed like this, something was amiss, very much amiss in this case. This very morning in the hour before dawn Findulas had said goodbye to him with a happy smile on her lips. “Farewell, dear heart – when we will meet again, you will be a father,” she had whispered to him, before she had retreated with the healers, midwife and several servant girls, her fragile form nearly vanishing in the bustling crowd of women.

 

Ever since the worry had dogged his steps, Findulas was not a strong woman, she had always been fragile, a gentle flower from the southern seas and this pregnancy was taxing her greatly. Two times she had nearly miscarried, and around New Year it had looked like the child would be born too soon. But now, three weeks later it seemed that like there was no delaying any longer. All day Denethor had tried to keep to the library and not stray towards the tower where his family lived.

 

His father had smiled bemusedly and told him to stay away from the main yards and wait it out calmly. “Many a first-time father might be nervous, son,” he had said with a smile quirking his mouth. “but few will show it so clearly. Keep away from the guards, they might find it highly amusing, as their womenfolk will only inform them when all is over.” Denethor knew this to be true, Gondor’s women were nothing but practical when it came to that.

 

Still, as the long hours of the afternoon crept by, his worry increased. He could not bear to lose Findulas, the very idea made him fear more than that insane attack at Umbar’s havens three years ago. When he had met Findulas at first it had been in her father’s house in Dol Amroth, until that day he had scoffed about the songs of eternal love, calling them the bad invention of bards on a rainy day. In the span of one evening he had learned how wrong he had been. Findulas had enchanted him, not just with her looks, though she was the most beautiful Lady in all Gondor, but much more with her spirit. They had debated Tar-Vizion’s writings on early Numenór and their relation to the Elves, not even noticing that the rest of the party was politely bored.

 

Their courtship had been met with a lot of disapproval. Findulas’s father Ardahil of Dol Amroth had seemingly had another betrothal for her in mind, rumor even claimed that she was supposed to be betrothed to an Elven Lord. But his opposition was not the only one, many amongst Gondor’s nobility had frowned on a link between Dol Amroth and the House of Ruling Stewards. Tarin of Dol Amroth’s misdeeds had cast a long shadow over the house and were hardly forgotten. Denethor had been lucky to find at least understanding in his father. Ecthelion had taken all the upheaval in the Council of Nobles with a shrug, politely ignoring the complaints of some other houses and supported his son in spite of the political implications.

 

Denethor was grateful that his father had been supporting him, they certainly had their arguments in the past, but he had always been able to turn to his father when it counted most. And for the last four years they had been happy, very happy. Of course there had been those who began to whisper when there had not been a child soon after the marriage. Denethor had ignored the nagging entirely, but he had seen how the whispers slowly got to his wife and there had been no words to console her that did not sound callous. Even if he said that she was his wife because he loved her, not because he expected her to carry his children, it had come out all wrong, for Findulas wished for children deeply. And when she finally found herself blessed she had been very happy and she had remained happy, no matter how complicated her pregnancy became.

 

With a sigh Denethor lit a candle on the desk, outside the cold winter dawn crept through the windows. It had been a cold day and it would be a wretched night. He put aside the report he had been writing on, he would have to re-read it later to make sure he had not writing everything thrice, the text looked too long. “Tarien,” he turned to the young scribe who had kept to his corner of the library for most of the day. “were there any other messages of urgency?” The most urgent would have been brought to his father anyway, but there were enough still pressing matters that would end up in Denethor’s hands.

 

“Not really, my Lord,” Tarien said, putting aside the steel nibbed pen into the holder beside the inkwell. “The reports from Osgiliath and Cair Andros I handed down to the Lord Captain, Turayne will deal with them swiftly. There is a complaint from the Western Provinces, some issue near the gap of Rohan most likely and… Ambassador Rivarien’s letter, that at least ought to make for an interesting read, the Dwarven courts of old must have been quite the place, if reports are any indication.”

 

Rivarien – Denethor remembered discussing sending him North with his father. He had not cared much for the advice his father had gotten to try and create some sorts of diplomatic bonds with the King under the Mountain again, but he had seen the sense in trying after all. There were too many trade issues wide open and there had to be significant changes to them. One walk through the library had told Denethor that most books on the dwarven kingdoms were older than the fall of Moria, and the two that were not, were the reports of Gondor’s Ambassador at King Thrór’s court and a treatise on the Dwarven Situation, that had been commissioned by his grandfather Turgon when the complaints about the wandering homeless dwarves had risen too far. But the latter was annoyingly superficial and the older books did not have much depth either.

 

“Give me the report,” he told Tarien, it would distract him for a while and he would see how things were progressing. There had not been a Gondorian envoy at a Dwarven Court for generations now, and the Light alone knew how the dwarves were viewing Men these days.  Rising from his table he still got the _Treatise on the situation of the displaced dwarves_ and _Durin’s folk – a study_ , even as the latter was dating back to Numenór itself, it still held a lot of explanations of words, terms and concepts amongst the dwarves.

 

Opening the seal on the heavy leather scroll, Denethor was not surprised to find an entire bundle of parchment slip on the table, most were covered in Rivarien of Ras Morthil’s neat handwriting.

 

_Rivarien, Lord of Ras Morthil to Ecthelion of the House of Húrin, Ruling Steward of Gondor, greetings…_

Denethor skipped the entire introductory part, which was strictly formal and never held any useful information beyond titles, he would go back there later to see if anything was out of the ordinary. Three lines down things began to become much more interesting.

 

_On our trip North we found a solid road crossing the ancient East-West road, which the people of this land call the Men-i-Naugrim, leading past the Long Lake and North towards the Lonely Mountain. To my surprise I found that the entire land that is referred to as “the Desolation” by the locals is actually a green, lush land settled by Northen Menfolk. A land large enough to be an independent province by our standards settled by a tribe of Men that call themselves the People of Dale, but are ruled by the King under the Mountain._

_In my first surprise I inquired with several of them how it came that there was no King of Dale and learned that the Lords of Dale were indeed followers of the King under the Mountain and that Bard the Bowman, Lord of Dale had died only recently and his son Brán of Dale taking up the mantle of his Lordship, though he too is a liege man of the King under the Mountain. While my first impression is of course fleeting by necessity, I had the impression that I was dealing with a prospering, well developed tribe of Men, flourishing under the dwarven rule._

Denethor frowned, he had gestured Tarien to bring him yet another book, hastily pouring through the pages until he found the relevant side-note: “The people who call themselves the people of Dale are said to having encountered Thorin I as he journeyed North to join his people in the Ered Mithrin. Said Prince Thorin saved them from roving Orcs of the Misty Mountains and invited them to found a city under Dwarven protection at the feet the Ered Mithrin, ever since the fates of these two nations have been linked…”

 

It was not much, but it seemed to be a tribe of Men who shared long bonds of friendship with the dwarven people. Denethor could hardly imagine how this was supposed to be possible, but then other kinds of Men had flourished in close neighborhood for centuries. He went on to read.

 

_… the Lonely Mountain is a poor name for one of the mightiest fortresses in existence. The main city is underground and mighty battlements protect all entrances from the main gates to the outer fortifications. The city is vast – truly housing an entire nation and stretching deep into the Mountain, which is indeed shared with Menfolk that seems to not suffer from having lived underground for almost two generations now. Another tribe of Dwarves lives in the frozen peak of the Lonely Mountain known as “the Reach”, they too are liege people to the King under the Mountain. The reception in court was friendly and surprisingly respectful. King Thorin II Oakenshield is a dwarf of the proud age of 212 years, and not yet to be considered an old King by any stretch of imagination._

Denethor studied the drawing that had been penned on another parchment. Strange, this dwarf looked different from how books depicted them – yet, those books were ancient. The drawing had been done by Rivarien’s scribe, who was a very deft artist, capturing the striking features of the older dwarf very well. He did not look like someone weak-willed or easily swayed.

 

_King Thorin proved surprisingly knowledgeable about Gondor and highly interested in the development of the Kingdom during the last fifty years. He holds an admittedly lower regard for Arnór, after having lived in the fallen land during the long Exile. I will admit that his descriptions of the state of Arnór were fascinating and distracted me greatly during our first conversations, especially after we were joined by his son, Prince Fíli, of whom I have the impression that he is a close advisor to his King and Father._

Denethor’s lips curled in a cool, slightly ironic smile. They had seen what kind of ‘strength’ Arnór still bred and he had not been impressed. Rangers and wanderers… not what Gondor wished for or needed. It was interesting that the dwarves even in their own wanderings seemed to have kept a clear distance to the Northern Dunedain. He would ask Rivarien to include more details about that in his next letter.

 

_Prince Fíli is 125 years old and as such considered a dwarf in his prime; he in turn is married and has several children whom I have yet to see beyond a fleeting mention. It took me several days to learn that while a son of King Thorin, Prince Fíli is not Crown Prince and Heir to Erebor. He has a brother, Prince Kíli, who is King Thorin’s heir, but is not at the Mountain at this moment. I could not learn more about it, except that he is on some kind of important quest in the western lands. The structure of King Thorin’s court is nothing like our old books describe…._

 

The winding description of ranks and structures in the dwarven realm were something that Denethor began to take notes about. He also made a note to find the last known family tree of King Thrór and add the later generations to it.

 

“It seems you have found something to occupy your mind with,” The voice came from the shelf not far from Denethor, only now he noticed that Tarien had bowed out of the library in haste. Ecthelion stood leaning against the heavy shelf and watched him. “what is the reading you find so fascinating?”

 

“Rivarien’s report on his journey north, father,” Denethor told him, putting aside the nib. “much what we know of the dwarven people is hopelessly outdated if not entirely antiquated. I am trying to sum up his notes into a useful summary as I go and I am only through half of his report by now. I read a lot of wonderment and awe in his writings, though.”

 

Ecethelion drew a chair closer to sit down, his aged hands resting on the sides of the armchair. “You are too young to remember the time when the dwarves came wandering through our lands, working in quarries and forges. When I was young we had at least two dozen of them working down in the Undercity. The sword you wear – is of dwarven make.”

 

Astonished Denethor’s eyes went to the blade resting against the table. The sword was more than good, it had never failed him, neither in Umbar nor other fights. He always had the impression that it was better than any blade in the hands of other nobles. “It was made by a dwarf? How…?”

 

“My father had it commissioned for me when I was only 20,” Ecthelion said. “it was around the time when we were building the new fortifications in the ruins of Osgiliath. A lot of dwarves were working there – hauling stone ships upriver, forging tools and working on the fortress itself. Amongst them was an exceptionally gifted bladesmith, I still believe that his skill was suited for much higher things than making tools for the workers at the building site, and that only hard times forced him to take such occupation. How my father knew he was so gifted I do not know, but when I first held that sword, I knew he was beyond all bladesmiths we have in Gondor.”

 

“And you are right about it,” Denethor could see how his father relaxed into the chair, enjoying the memories of the past. “the sword never failed me once, never slipped from my hand nor ever broke. It hardly ever turns blunt. Grandfather chose well on the maker.”

 

“He did indeed – I well remember him, a gruff unfriendly dwarf with a glare that could scare grown men. He had two sister-sons who already helped around his forge, their own father having fallen in battle. Not that Thorin really spoke of his family to Menfolk, questions were met with more glares. I sometimes wondered how Fíli and Kíli bore such an Uncle… but then, I was young myself and could hardly imagine that those boys had seen more years than I did.” Ecthelion’s eyes strayed to the window where the pale winter moon shone against the cold glass. “I often wondered what became of them. They wandered off one autumn, three dwarves, one pony and a long road ahead…”

 

“Thorin was his name?” Denethor’s eyes strayed to the letter. “and his sons… sister-sons were named Fíli and Kíli? How common are these names amongst dwarves?”

 

“I do not know, I rarely heard a dwarven name twice amongst those wanderers. Does Rivarien mention them? A bladesmith of such skill might have returned home to his people.” Ecthelion now was truly curious, especially as he saw his son’s rare smile.

 

“He might truly have returned home to his kind,” Denethor replied, handing his father the drawing of King Thorin. He could hardly imagine that a royal house would have fallen so far, but at least they had proven able to rebuilt their pride and titles. “you might wish to peruse the letter in full.”

 

Watching his father read the letter, expressions of amazement and fascination flitting over his aged features, made Denethor smile. It was good to see his father so absorbed in something, so relaxed with the worries of his offices forgotten for the moment. There had been too little such moments over the last decades. Content to watch, Denethor leaned back in his chair and when his father had finished the long missive, they both devised a list of questions that they wished Rivarien to pursue.

 

The first rays of light touched upon the window, the sun rose in the east a fiery ball in the clear skies. An icy wind blew around the towers, East Wind – Denethor could tell it had to be by the way the windows on the east side of the room shook, whenever a fresh gust touched them.

 

“My Lord… you have to come at once…!” A young servant girl – Lini  - rushed into the library, curtsying hastily. She was panting like she had run all the way from the tower.

 

Denethor was already at his feet. “Findulas is she…?” He did not dare ask, she had to live, please let her live…

 

“Your child was born, my Lord and the Lady is exhausted but young Ioreth and Midwife Elá are saying strange things about the boy. They say he was marked by evil… the Lady is very very upset about their words.” Lini clutched her hands against her breast, her breath still flying.

 

“I will teach them to talk such nonsense.” Denethor already strode past Lini gesturing her to follow him. “What has them blather such insipid tales?”

 

Lini hastened after him, gathering up her skirts as they hurried up the stairwell of the tower. “My Lady had a very hard time, her labor drew on and on, during the night it really looked like something was preventing her from delivering the child, which was more than ready. At first light, when the first rays of the sun touched her the babe was born. And Ioreth began talking of the child being born under the ‘crown of the East’, the blood red light that is the harbinger of war and that it was a bad omen…”

 

Denethor knew the superstitions against anything east, but most of it was simple nonsense believed by peasants and old women. Taking three steps in one stride he reached Findula’s room swiftly. From inside he heard anxious voices. “The child is bearing the mark, you have to see that. He is a child of destruction – better to do away with the child before it can do real harm.” It was the voice of old Elá, the midwife. “You cannot ignore the omens.”

 

“No!” Denethor could hear Findulas’ tired voice, sobs barely choked in her words. “you will leave my baby alone, you old hags! I will not let you harm him!”

 

Against all propriety Denethor pushed the door to the room open, to see his wife desperately clutching her child, surrounded by several women who were on the verge of threatening her. Tears were shining in Findulas’ eyes and she looked so pale and fragile like never before. His entrance startled the women, who turned to him.

 

“My Lord,” Éla, the old midwife curtsied swiftly, her aide, young Ioreth kept to the background, while the two other healers puffed their chests. “Inappropriate as your arrival might be, you might be able to spare your wife further grief. The child was born marked by the Shadow, and it needs to be put away with quickly…”

 

“I will have nothing more of your nonsense,” Denethor said sharply. How did they dare to frighten Findulas with their inane superstitions? He took a step back into the doorframe and turned around. “Guards!” he called out, knowing that on the landing above and below were guard posts of the citadel guard. Swift steps echoed on the white stone stairs, the guard from the upper landing arriving at first. Denethor remembered the man – he had fought beside him in Umbar. “Erhawn, is it?” he was fairly sure of the name, though the question gained him a quick nod and the man was a gift of the Light in this moment. “Your wife was a healer in the Houses of Healing, was she?”

 

“Aye, my Lord. Branwen is a healer.”

 

Branwen, now Denethor remembered, there had been rumors after the end of the Umbar campaign. Erhawn had married the girl that was already pregnant and rumor had it that it was not his child, though he had been decent enough to accept the boy as his. Denethor held back on a disdainful smile, he knew enough of the rumors about Branwens unhappy dalliances to know that Erhawn had done Gondor a favor by marrying her swiftly. “Sent for your wife at once, the Lady Findulas has need of a competent healer who knows not to worry her with stupid old wives’ tales.” Branwen was the wife of a citadel soldier, those families held a high loyalty to the House of Stewards and would not come up with such nonsense. “and have your company bundle the rest of these hens out of the citadel – their services are no longer required.”

 

The guard from below had arrived, led by Sirion, the Captain of the Tower Guard who must have heard of the commotion and come in person to ensure things were alright. Having heard the orders, Sirion did not hesitate to have his men lead away the healers and midwives, while Erhawn sent for Branwen.

 

Entering the room, Denethor sat down on the side of the bed, to comfort his wife. Findulas had sunk back on the pillows, her lush hair was matted with sweat and she still tightly held onto her child. “Do not fear,” Denethor smiled, gently touching her arm. “they will not pester you any longer.”

 

The child wailed softly, and Findulas gently shushed it. “He already has his father’s commanding voice,” she said with a smile as the child settled.

 

Leaning close Denethor saw the boy’s open eyes and was delighted to see he had the same green eyes as Findulas had. “I hope he gets the looks from his mother,” he kissed Findulas’ hair. The child’s tiny arms were closely snuggled to the body, but Denethor saw something dark on the right arm. Gently he nudged Findulas to relax her hold to look closer, he saw her eyes widen in panic and stopped. “No matter what kind of ‘mark’ is supposedly there, dear heart, I will never forsake our child. Never. What do these uneducated hags know of such things?”

 

Relaxing her hold Findulas smiled at him. “It was so hard… like something holding me back while the child was being born, like I did not have the strength to bear him into this world.” She whispered.

 

Denethor’s eyes fell in the boy’s arm. There truly was a mark there – the dark outline of a complex shape wrapping all around the right forearm. When he looked closer he saw it was the shape of a dragon – the head resting in the crook of the elbow, the tail reaching to the hand. The line was faint, but clear. His mind was racing – several of the Numenorán Kings had been marked at birth, usually a sign of a great destiny. Lore said that Elendil himself had borne a star shaped mark over his heart. He felt Findulas’ fearful glance and very gently put his arm around her. “Let these old wives not worry you, dear heart,” he said warmly. “if a dragon is a sign at all, then that our boy will become a mighty warrior.”

 

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Branwen, she curtsied swiftly and then went to look after Findulas and the babe. Neither mark nor other ‘omens’ did interrupt her ministrations. After bathing and wrapping the child into clean sheets she handed it back to Findulas. “You have a son, my Lord,” she said to Denethor. “quite a lot of son, if I dare say so. Clean limbed and healthy, he should be a strong boy.”

 

“Very well, Branwen,” Denethor was satisfied that at least some healers kept their good sense. She might have not had the same sense in the choice of her erstwhile lover if rumors were true, but she had been smart enough to marry a soldier of the citadel. “You will be Lady Findulas’ healer from now on. Some servants will assist you to move your things to the citadel.”

 

“My Lord, honored though I may be, I too have a child growing up in the city…”

 

“Then bring your son to the citadel, a lot of soldier’s children grow up here, one more will be welcome.” Denethor said. Most boys growing up in the citadel became soldiers and Gondor had an increasing need of fighters. Her son would be fine with the other boys. Brandwen curtsied and left.

 

Smiling Denethor turned back to his wife, who had just finished feeding the child. “Our son,” he still could not quite believe it. He had sometimes tried to imagine this moment, but now that it was here, nothing compared.

 

“What should we name him?” Findulas, tired though she might be, asked. The child had fallen asleep, but would probably wake in another hour to demand more sustenance.

 

Denethor thought about that. He had considered Turgon, for his grandfather, or maybe Cirion but now both names felt wrong. A warrior, a fighter… a strong leader, someone faithful and true to his people. Faithful… “Boromir,” he suggested after another moment of thinking. The name felt right.

 

Findulas smiled warmly. “Boromir,” she repeated, like trying the name. “Yes… Boromir, he shall be.”

 

TRB

 

Seeing _Windfinder_ steer into harbor was a picture that would still call up memories for Canó, of course it was not the same _Windfinder_ that he had seen on that stormy day not long after his brother’s vanishing, when he had first met Eglandîr, nor was it same the ship that had carried him through the mists towards Sirion. Both memories were still strong ones with him. In search for his brother, for a way into the dread land he had been dragged off to, he had turned to the coastline, following it north through Lamoth and along the Ered Lómin, hoping they would reveal another, hidden path into the Ered Engrin. He had not expected to find Teleri settlements on the icy northern coast, nor had he expected to aid them against a foray of Orcs. When all had been over he had tried to explain to Faintôr, their leader, that while he had aided them, they might not wish to call him friend – that he shared a blood debt towards their people in Aman. He had not wished to deceive the brave Sea Elf, nor wanted to lie about their deeds on the other side of the sea.

 

Faintôr’s reply was one he would never forget. “I have no brothers beyond the great sea – if I had I would have to call them traitors to leave us to fight alone in this land. Whomever you fought in Aman, they were no kin of mine.” And when he had learned what Canó’s purpose in their land was, he had taken him up the Echoing river aboard _Windfinder,_ encroaching on the enemy lands from an angle Canó had never believed possible. Their search had to be abandoned eventually, Finrod had been the one to save Maedhros but the friendship between Canó and Faintôr had remained. The other Teleri beginning to shy away from Faintôr’s people, ignoring their very existence and Elwe Thingol had been the first to call him Egandîr, the Forsaken.

 

Egandîr, Canó would never be able to think of this name without thinking of Sirion Havens. Faintôr had been angered that his three attempts of parley with the people of Sirion had been met with blunt refusals to talk or negotiate. In the end, he had given up on talking and aided them in their attack on the harbor. On that day he had adopted the name Egandîr for himself, giving up on his erstwhile name entirely. Canó wished he had not visited so much blood and guilt on his friend, seeing that Egandîr would chose such a path out of friendship had torn him apart.

 

The ship came around the bend, maneuvering lazily on the soft winds. Nothing like the one sight of _Windfinder_ that was etched into his soul, that he would never forget. He had been alone at the empty coast, half crazed with the pain of the jewel he had thrown into the seas when the land began to break around him and the flood rose from the sea. The dread Canó had felt as the waters rose was not the dread of his own demise but of the wrath that drove the waters against ravaged Beleriand. It had been by instinct alone that Canó had begun to climb to the heights, finding higher ground, but the waters had been rushing in too fiercely and soon there had been no place to reach any more, except the cliff he was standing on. He had been resigned to die, to be taken by the seas, to let his pain be washed away be the wrath that broke upon Arda’s coast. And then he had seen it – a tiny white speck on the dark waters that came closer and closer, taking the shape of a familiar ship fighting its way through the storm. To this day Canó could not tell how Egandîr had found him, but the sea and the elves were friends, and maybe it had been the great sea herself that had guided Egandîr to the right spot.

 

_“Helegion strike both Nelthil, the pressure will break the fêr!” Canó still was dazed, his feet insecure on the faltering planks of Windfinder. The ship was rolling in the storm, waves crashing over her, how the harborfinder could make it through these waves without sinking bespoke the skill and maybe also the luck of her sea elven crew._

_“Canó, find some hold, this is not over yet!” Egandîr snapped, both of his hands were on the steering oar, guiding the ship through the tempest. “the other ships should have picked up as many of your people as we could. I hope they are under land already. Wherever the coast may be when this is done.”_

_A huge wave rose before them, one giant wall of water. Canó’s heart nearly stood still, was this the dark oblivion he had condemned himself to? Was this the end? “You will perish with me onboard,” his own voice seemed strange to him. “the sea will not allow you to carry me back to Arda.” He had no wish for them to share his fate, he would welcome the end of the pain, the end of it all but they deserved a kinder fate._

_“Helegion, cannathrvia to half,” Egandîr called out to his first, while he brought the ship about, heading straight for the dark wave._

_“You cannot do this,” Canó had woken from his stupor. “the sea will not let me go.”_

_“Then it can drown the both of us, if it gets us first.” Egandîr replied, a fierce smile on his face, the white hair flying in the angry storm. “Canó, you know war and lore like none other – the same way I know the sea. We are not lost yet.”_

_Windfinder had been on direct cutting course to the huge wave, being raised up high by the angry waters and then plunged into the deep as they had crossed the wave itself. The ship crashed into the whirling waters, the front mast breaking with a horrible crack, the main mast still holding and amidst the howling of the wind Canó had heard Egandîr laugh._

“Canó!” A familiar voice cut through his musings. Opening his eyes Canó saw Windfinder moored at the quay and Egandîr standing beside him. “Are you well?”

 

“Only lost in thoughts, my friend. I can never see your ship pull into harbor without thinking of that day,” Canó replied, his eyes straying to Windseeker, resting on the waters. The ship held many memories for him, but most of all of a friendship that had endured beyond wrath and banishment.

 

Egandîr knew what day Canó spoke of and did not comment. He respected Canó’s person too much to ever make comment on him not forgetting the storm ride towards the breaking coast. “The unrest you felt were more than a few bad things thrown onto the coast by the last storm,” he said as they walked. “your brother and his friends made swift work of most of it.”

 

Canó was relieved to hear that. The sea might have swallowed up Beleriand and Angband but storms still would throw things ashore, some harmless, some painful and some downright dangerous. It was another reason why he had chosen to return to his brother ancient fort on Himring. Not only did it offer shelter for the surviving Noldor and Teleri who still called them friends, or Lords, and it also allowed them to deal with the vile things the sea would spit out at times. “How did the Ice Bay look this summer?”

 

“Open, the ice has withdrawn further than it has in two hundred years, the passage to the northern peninsula is open,” Egandîr pointed out on the water. “and I am glad that there are few sailors daring to go into the bay. If it were discovered that the Northern Peninsula can be reached… I do not like the thought.”

 

“If this winter does not freeze the passage again solidly, I may ask you to bring my brother and I across next summer to see what kind of danger threatens from there.” Canó told him, he hoped that a grim winter would freeze the ice bay again enough to make it not passable for ships.

 

TRB

 

Kíli was glad to be off the ship, he would never like them, not like Anvari who always was unreasonably happy when they had the chance to get on a boat. Not that their adventure on the coast had not been interesting. With the passing of the years Kíli had never felt more like a young student, and he did not complain the least. Sitting down on a bitt by the quay, he removed his right bracer. His arm had been itching for hours already. When he had taken off the heavy leather and the wind brushed against his arm, his eyes widened. The dragonmark on his arm had changed. Ever since the Battle of the Five Armies it had shone in the eerie light the dissolving Arkenstone had left them with… but now there was a fiery rim on the outline, a golden shimmer only visible on the outer edges of the mark. Gently he traced his fingers over the skin, feeling the dragon’s slow movements under his skin and he knew what it meant. Though that dark spot in his mind was still empty, though he did not feel any echo when he listened into the bond, he knew that somewhere in the wide world his brother had been reborn.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> Nelthil – lit. Triangle – Jig sails  
> Fer – Mast  
> Cannathrevia – lit. foursail – Main Sail/Top sail
> 
> The map I am using when referring to the “Northern Peninsula” was: tolkiengateway.net /wiki / File:Beleriand-eriador-fonstad.png


	27. Childhood's End

February TA 2990 – Erebor

 

The book resting beside Bilbo on the table had grown fat with notes, observations and more notes as the years progressed. Though he still felt like he was wading his way through darkness there was definite progress. Most of the lore of magical rings had been Elven teachings, Celebrimbor son of Curufin certainly the foremost in that lore, a name that Bilbo found increasingly disquieting and fascinating at the same time. Because the name of Celebrimbor tied in closely with Durin III and his long rule in Moria, Bilbo had been intrigued on how many scattered references to this great dwarf king could be found in the archives. He had ended up sorting them, getting a system into them and finally the work had formed into a comprehensive volume on the Life and Times of Durin III.

 

This work had clearly pleased Thorin but it also had led to some long conversations on Durin III, Celebrimbor, their friendship and the First of the Seven. Bilbo had been spellbound by the knowledge Thorin possessed on the topic and relieved that his own ring was nothing of that devastatingly powerful sort. He’d rather riddle around on some minor artifact that had the power to make someone invisible, than actually fend off something as great and horrible as the First of the Seven had been.

 

“Still absorbed into the lore? Who would have thought that we would turn an innocent Shireling from gardening and cooking to the lore of the grand artifacts?” A rumbling voice brought him from the tedious translations of the really odd Quenya dialect the latest tome was written in. Bilbo did not need to even turn around to know who had spoken. If not for his deep voice, Thorin had a very distinctive step and the familiar noise of armor and coat, told Bilbo right away who was here.

 

“One cannot live around two great spellsmiths – or having had the honor to see them work – and not try to learn more about their art.” He replied, putting the nib into the holder beside the inkwell. “and I have to say, there seems to be a lot of secret lore, more of very secret lore and then there is absolutely secret lore only to be learned from a Master, but there are next to none basic works to give an overview.”

 

Thorin pulled the heavy armchair, which he had placed in Bilbo’s working corner years ago, closer and sat down. “I dare say Erebor will be the only place ever to have such tomes, thanks to you,” He said, leaning back comfortably. “And I nearly regret to pull you off this research for a while – I need you to find something else for me.”

 

“Sure, how can I help?” Bilbo asked with a smile. He often looked into complicated or odd topics for Thorin and he enjoyed the challenge immensely when the King had come across a confusticating problem again.

 

“I need you to track down everything about an obscure legal topic – a blood adoption while both birth parents of the child in question are still alive.” Thorin informed him. “It is exceedingly rare amongst dwarves and it requires as special ritual, but even in the rare cases that I know of it was done when the father was dead.”

 

“If the father were alive he would have to relinquish his bloodline rights…” Bilbo frowned. “that would really require a special ritual. I think there was a reference to that in the Chronicle of Azaghâl and it was at least disputed in one case that came to be judged by Durin V – Frarin’s book on family legacies discusses the judgment at length…” Bilbo’s voice trailed off, he knew his launching into a topic often amused Thorin to no end, but today the dwarven King looked grim. “This… there is a recent case you need this for?” That would definitely set him a time limit.

 

“Most likely,” Thorin said, his voice heavy. “I hate to having to consider it, but it might become unavoidable. And when that time comes I want to make sure that the adoption cannot be disputed by anyone.”

 

Bilbo tilted his head, studying Thorin for a while. “It is about Kíli isn’t it? He does not have children of his own. But he still might come around and find himself a nice lass.”

 

“He will not,” Thorin’s fingers drummed on the side of the armchair. “Kíli is one of those dwarves who are whole, they do not need someone else to be complete – at least not a spouse. His heart belongs to his craft and to fighting, a dangerous combination in a future King admittedly, but it has been known to happen before.”

 

So an adoption it would be and Bilbo had no doubt that Thorin had already one of Fíli’s sons in mind for that honor. He would guess it might be Asutri, he was clearly Thorin’s favorite and received extensive from him and Frérin, who had become a mentor to the child. “I will get down to research right away, Thorin.” Bilbo pushed his own notes to a corner of the table, so he would have room for books, dwarven lawbooks tended to be volumes that could well serve in any murder case, one could smash skulls with them.

 

“Bilbo!” Another voice cut into his usually quiet corner. At the archway leading into the oriel stood Aife, the dwarven tradeswoman was still in full armor, her travelling cloak stained with the dust from the road. When she saw Thorin she bowed swiftly. “I apologize for interrupting, my Lord.”

 

Thorin waved it off. “You are early to drop of the letters, Aife.” He observed, it was an open secret that Aife, who still had her caravans travel across the mountains, brought Bilbo the letters from Drogo twice a year and took his letters along in turn. Spending a lot of time on the roads still, Aife had weathered well, becoming a bronze-skinned, leather faced dwarrow with her red hair and beard paled by too much exposure to the sun.

 

“I… I am sorry, my King, but… I carry grievous news.” She stepped closer, and Bilbo could tell that she must have come straight from the gates without even taking the time to change into clean clothes.

 

Bilbo rose. “Aife… what is it? What has happened?” A great fear grabbed his heart. What could it be? “Drogo and Primula are they… are they alright?”

 

Aife’s face took a sad expression that usually was reserved for when she spoke of her little sister who had starved on the long road from Dunland. “Bilbo – Drogo and Primula Baggins are dead, they perished last autumn… Mahal take them home.”

 

Stumbling Bilbo sat down again, his hands shaking. Of the few people he still had contact with in the Shire, Drogo and Primula had been most dear to him, their letters a link to the home he had not seen in almost fifty years. “How… Aife, they were not old. They were younger than I am!” He felt a strong hand on his shoulder, Thorin had risen, standing beside him. His strong, unmoving presence comforting in this moment and Bilbo was grateful for it.

 

“They attended the boating party of one Gorbadoc Brandybuck to celebrate Harvest Home, I believe.” Aife had made detailed inquiries when she had learned of the tragedy the previous November. “How it came to happen that both fell off a boat is somewhat unclear, I pressured the bounders and several witnesses into telling me the details, in case a blood-feud would become necessary to avenge them, but all of them swear it was an accident, both stumbling and capsizing the boat.”

 

Bilbo closed his eyes, vividly remembering his own boating accident as a tween so long ago. “They could not swim,” he said softly. “neither of them. May they find rest…” he had been very close to wish them to sleep in Mahal’s arms, like Aife had. In his heart this was the blessing he would give, but neither of them would appreciate something that outlandish. “Goodness… their son, little Frodo – Aife what about him?”

 

“That is what Rorimarc Brandybuck spoke to me about, he gave me a letter to you as well. He has taken temporarily charge of the boy and ensured that nothing of his own inheritance was stolen, nor that your possessions were impeached upon by a certain Lobelia. Who seems to be under the impression that you have a dwarven love child.”

 

“I have a what?” Bilbo jumped off the chair, brushing away Thorin’s hand on his shoulder. “she had said a lot of nonsense about me, but that… that is simply ridiculous.” He pressed his fingers against each other, forcing himself to calm down. Nerves were half the battle won, or so Kíli would say.

 

“What did this Rorimarc tell you, Aife?” Thorin took up the questions, he could see that Bilbo was shaken. A death in the family was never an easy thing to bear.

 

“He said that Drogo left a peculiar last will and requested that I make haste to deliver his letter, so that circumstances may be resolved swiftly. He inquired thrice whether or not Bilbo truly was still alive.” Aife handed over a heavy leather scroll. “That is all he said, I left the caravan to Ulfregar, my second and rode as fast as I could.”

 

“You did well, Aife,” Thorin said. “go and get some rest. If there are further questions I will call upon you.”

 

Aife bowed and swiftly withdrew. Thorin handed Bilbo the scroll. “I am very sorry,” he said, his voice softening. “may their sleep be light and may they find the path to the land where there is neither pain nor darkness.”

 

Bilbo felt a warmth spread inside him, it was rare that dwarves tried to respect the blessing of other peoples. “Thank you, Thorin,” he said, slowly sitting down again. “I… I never expected this to happen. They both were younger than I, they were supposed to be safe. I could not see how fate could take them when they were so well loved…”

 

“It has taken others, equally well beloved,” Thorin said in a low voice. “and it is up to those who survive to take care of those left behind.”

 

“The mourning of the dead must never take priority over the care for the living,” Bilbo knew that line, he had _seen_ Thorin live by that creed, pulling back from the brink of his own grief to take care of his people. It was an inspiring example, though Bilbo had always wondered where Thorin found that strength within himself. He slowly opened the scroll, finding a letter of Rorimark inside. The letter was long, full of longwinding worries that forced Bilbo to backtrack several times, then he read it a second time and still frowned. “No… he can’t mean that.”

 

“What?” Thorin asked, he had sat down too and waited patiently for Bilbo to read the missive. “does he demand you return and take the title of Master of Bag-End again?”

 

“It never was a formal title, thank goodness,” Bilbo said. “but no – he informs me that Drogo in his last will named me legal guardian of young Frodo.”

 

“A wise choice, he knew you were honorable and reliable.” Thorin observed. The decision made perfect sense to him. He had never met this Drogo Baggins, but he must have had good common sense and an excellent instinct for family.

 

“No!” Bilbo put the letter down. “It is not a wise choice. I… I may well be able to track down every single obscure document that’s been gathering dust in the archives since before your grandfather was crowned, I may not mind going with you when you have to go gallivanting about in the peak but… Thorin… I do not know how to be a Hobbit any more. I am as un-hobbitish as anyone can be, I doubt I would be considered respectable…”

 

“And who cares what your small-minded relatives think?” Thorin asked, seeing that Bilbo was overwhelmed with self-doubts. “you will raise him to be an adventurous hobbit just like yourself, and a scholar as well.”

 

Bilbo sighed. “You don’t understand, Thorin. I.. I am a scholar, a little of a warrior and some of a burglar, I can be that and will happily go on being just that for the rest of my life but… I do not know how to be a father. How to raise children.”

 

Thorin smiled the warmth driving away the harsh lines on his face. “Neither did I when Dari died,” he said. “he was a natural at being a father – or maybe it was because he had to take care of his orphaned siblings from a young age on. When he died I was suddenly faced with Kíli and Fíli on my own – no one had taught me how to be a father. So I simply went with my heart and all went well in the end.”

 

“Only that your family has a knack for having big hearts,” Bilbo said softly. “and you had…” he did not say that Thorin had Dís to help him, while her murder was decades ago, Bilbo knew that dwarves often carried such wounds long.

 

“You could bring him back to the Mountain,” Thorin suggested. “Asutri, Tolá, Wulfregar and young Narvi will be happy to have a young friend to play with and to protect.”

 

Bilbo tried to picture a Hobbit child amongst Fíli’s raucous pack of children. Asutri, who was massively grown, his growing dwarfling age now fading into the slowing age, not a child any longer but far from a full adult by another thirty years, Tolá, a growing dwarfling with the constant mission to annoy her brothers, stubborn and fierce Wulfregar who had just entered the growing age and little Narvi, who clung to his older brothers wherever they went. The very thought made him smile, maybe… maybe Thorin had a point. “I will have to travel back to the Shire, to take care of things. And journeying with such a young child will not be easy, if all I hear about the Misty Mountains of late is true.”

 

“Ánar and Hlevar will accompany you, and I will write to Kíli. Anvari has greatly stabilized, according to his last letters. It is a good time for them to come home as well.”

 

TRB

 

April 2990 – Himring Island

 

“ _Hawk streaks over fields, Wind sings!_ Kíli, move your feet!” The snapped command came no heartbeat too late, Kíli saw Anvari’s form blur as the young dwarf nearly broke through his cover, but Rú had foreseen it.  Kíli shifted stance, bringing the blade down in a narrow jab, blocking the attack. While he could see Anvari again, he saw also he had shifted stance to _Watch of the Winterwolf_ which meant another attack was coming. He could not lose focus, fighting like this took excessive focus, as he never knew what forms he’d be called to take next. And it was unfair, while he heard Rú’s commands snapped at him sharply, Canó never said a word. Anvari would hear his voice in his mind.

 

Gripping  the heavy blade with both hands firmly, Kíli went through the next bout. _Cat sleeps in the sun, Thousand blossoms_ and _Leaves in autumn,_ the latter a spin Rú loved. Kíli came around and his blade and Anvari’s hooked near the guard. The youthful dwarf grinned at him and broke free, moving faster than Kíli would ever be able to. The daily bouts served to sharpen Anvari’s skill with the sword as well as Kíli’s, and Kíli suspected they were a bit of a friendly match between the brothers. They tended to compare their students, though it had never been more than friendly banter.

 

 _Heron watching the pond, Oak in storm, tears of the sky_ Kíli was panting, sweat was running down his neck, his tunic clingy from the exercise. Anvari was fast and keeping him working hard. He pushed forward, _Silence of the frost, Wrath of the giant and Raven in flight_ the latter his very own trick, Anvari’s blade flew spinning from his hand, landing outside the practice circle. Kíli knew this was not over. Only five years ago he had found himself faced with blades of pure air in such moments when Anvari panicked. By now Anvari had mastered his fear and remained calm. But he knew that he was allowed to do that in the practice circle, all his skill ere allowed on the training field and Kíli fully expected some eerie elemental apparition of a weapon to appear in his hands at any moment.

 

But Anvari only stepped back and bowed. “Well fought, Kíli.” He said with a small smile.

 

Kíli put the weapon away and hugged him. “You too – you keep me at my toes.” He was proud of Anvari, he was so young and already displayed a control and maturity that was beyond his years.

 

The cawing of a Raven interrupted the training. Kíli stepped back and let the black bird land on his arm. It was one of Erebor’s Ravens, telling Kíli a lot of his message before Kíli even could take the letter the bird carried.

 

Anvari’s face fell, he too had inherited the gift to speak to Ravens. “We must go home?” he asked softly, then schooling his features into some determination he added. “it will be a long journey.”

 

Kíli could see that the brothers had risen, ready to give them space if it was ill news they had received. In the three decades he and Anvari had spent on the Island, or on adventurous outings along the ice bay of Forochel he had learned to read their body language as much as they read his. “It is not too many ill news,” He said out loud, including them into the discussion. “we have to meet up with Bilbo in the Shire, something happened with his family and… my father seems impatient for us to return home finally.”

 

Rú arched an eyebrow. “I was surprised King Thorin was willing to allow his heir to be away for so long,” he observed, he and Kíli had had more than once long discussion on the role of a Crown Prince. “and it will be good for Anvari to return to the Mountain.” The latter was added after Anvari had joined Canó on the other side of the practice ring.

 

“You think so?” Kíli asked. “Is he… is he ready? I mean… I will protect him with all I have, but I cannot teach him like your brother does.”

 

“He has mastered control, he uses his skills consciously and he has faced his fears, there is nothing more that can be taught. Life will do the rest.” Rú replied. “And it will do him good to go home. You both have been away from the deeps for too long already.”

 

“I always was a surface dwarf, as you call it,” Kíli shrugged. “and I did not know it showed in Anvari.” He knew Anvari had learned so much in these three decades and in spite of missing his family sometimes it had been good years out on the island at the edge of the world.

 

“You cannot see the signs, because you have them yourself.” Rú told him. “I remember well seeing them in… the other Anvari. When Azaghâl brought him along into the war camps he was not much older than your nephew is now and a century later when his father fell… he had changed deeply. So deeply he chose to stay with us, when his people returned to Belegost. I would not have Anvari lose his roots, his tenuous link with his family like this.”

 

Kíli understood what Rú was saying, he was still worried for Anvari. It had been a long way to the stability, the control he had now. But… if he did not show his nephew the trust to being able to handle his skills with maturity and care, what use had it all been? And at the same age Kíli had been itching to get out of the Blue Mountains, to be out on the road with Thorin. And he had seen Anvari grow restless too. “You are right, like always.” He gave in. “I do not know how to thank you for all you did for us. If there is ever anything I can do for you…”

 

Rú’s eyes lit up with a smile “Be careful, Kíli, you cannot know what kind of quest I might one day ask you to join us.” He said, his words half a joke, half a pushing off any thanks.

 

“Whatever quest it is – you will have my help. Always.” Kíli replied. “All you need is to send the word.” His eyes went over to Canó and Anvari, his nephew was already grinning excitedly. He better found the time to read Thorin’s letter, which would probably hold instructions where to meet Bilbo and what waystation of the traders would have horses for them. While a part of Kíli regretted leaving Himring Island behind, along with the friends they had here, another part of him was getting excited too, to finally return home.

 

TRB

 

June TA 2990 – Minas Tirith

 

“And the King ordered a new… a new port be built by the river’s… Rivermouth.” Findulas smiled as she peered into her husband’s study, seeing him with young Faramir, who was bravely fighting his way through an Adûnaic lesson. Only seven years old and Faramir was already reading two languages and learning to translate the complicated tongue of his ancestors into Westron. She did not speak or make her presence known, she knew Denethor treasured these lesson times with his second son, though it was hard for him, now that he was the Ruling Steward to make time for them.

 

She did not see Boromir anywhere nearby. Not that she was surprised by that. Ever since her eldest son had been five years old he had shown a disturbing tendency to slip out of his lessons. She well remembered how exasperated she had been when she had not been able to find him because he had run away from a lesson in penmanship. Her husband had simply laughed and led her down to one of the practice yards where she had seen her small boy practice with one of the soldier’s sons. He had been partnered with a boy three years older and a lot taller, but that had not perturbed him, nor had the many bruises he had sported that evening.

 

Findulas softly closed the door and headed outside. At this rate she was surprised that Boromir had learned to read and write at all. He loved to sneak away from “boring old stuff” and find some excitement. Faramir was the much more even-tempered and obedient son, Boromir was a rascal, and he loved nothing more than to play rough with the older boys. Striding through the courtyards of the citadel Findulas wondered why she still made a point to check on her sons – Boromir would be practicing the sword under Erhawn’s watchful eye, and later he’d probably talk Erhawn’s son Thoroniâr around into some mischief, be it a ride outside of the city or an expedition into the Undercity. He would turn up in the evening, dirty, tired and with a new set of scratches and bruises. She had long stopped worrying about him being gone like that. Erhawn usually set Thoroniâr to look out for Boromir and make sure he did not come to harm.

 

And that was the point she had meant to address for years now. Thoroniâr was three years older than Boromir and should not be constantly set to play guard to her boy, Steward’s son or not. She knew that Thoroniâr’s mother Branwen was less than happy with the situation, but accepted her husband’s decisions regarding her son. Maybe it was time for a quiet talk to Erhawn.

 

The practice yard lay nearly empty in the early afternoon sun, most of the soldiers were through their daily practice already and outside of two smaller figures no one was out on the sand. Findulas halted her steps and watched the two boys. Boromir, ten years old, with the fair hair and complexion of her family, clutching the practice blade with both hands and circling his opponent – Thoroniâr. The thirteen year old boy with the black mane of hair, moved backwards, following the slow circling. Suddenly he lunged forward and their blades clashed. Both boys showed the signs of years of practice already, because the bout was not without skill. Still, Findulas had to look away, Thoroniâr pushed Boromir hard and she could not watch it.

 

“My Lady, shall I call Boromir off the field?” Erhawn had seen her and joined her. The weapon’s master of the citadel already showed the first grey streaks in his dark hair and his face was deeply tanned from a life outside.

 

“No, Erhawn,” Findulas shook her head. “I should get used to it. He will not be my little boy much longer… in fact he has not been in some years already. Ever since he ran away to pester you for lessons.”

 

Erhawn chuckled. “He certainly has the talent for it, it’s in his blood. And he has the will to never give in, no matter how tough the lesson gets. He will become a fine soldier.”

 

Findulas knew Erhawn to be honest about that, he never coddled anyone, not even the sons of the Steward. “Is that why you partnered Boromir with your son, Erhawn? So he would get tough lessons?”

 

“Something like that,” Erhawn leaned against the warm stone wall, crossing his arms in front of his chest, his watchful eye on the boys and their bout. “when your son first came here, I had no other beginner to partner him with, so I needed an older boy who already had learned enough discipline to go hard on Boromir without hurting him seriously. I took Thoronîar because I knew what I had taught him already and because I could put him to some additional lessons easily.”

 

“So he’s had additional training to serve as a sparring partner for my son, on top of playing his guard whenever Boromir takes an adventure to his head. Don’t you think this is a bit hard on your boy? He has no life of his own.” Findulas watched as the bout came to an end and both boys clasped hands, the lesson seemed finished for today. Boromir laughed, pointing towards the gate of the practice yard, his hands moving swiftly, like he was making a suggestion. Thoroniâr clapped his shoulder and both boys headed to the storage house to bring their practice weapons back.

 

“Look at them, my Lady,” Erhawn said with a shrug. “they are friends, and now they will be off to some ride outside the walls, or to exploring the Undercity.” And Thoroniâr would make sure Boromir was safe, Erhawn had drilled that into him ever since the boys friendship had begun five years prior. “It is harmless, my Lady. Once they pass the trials of Dedication their friendship will be at an end and Thoron knows that. I’ve left a suggestion with Turayne to have Thoron sent to one of the border provinces once he passes for a soldier – that way things will settle back into order.”

 

Findulas heart hurt at the words, it was the calm assessment that while a boyhood friendship was a good thing, it would of course have to end once the boys grew old enough that their birth rank became important. It was a sad thing and exactly like soldiers thought. If she was to accept this for Boromir, that he would lose his friends once he reached adulthood, she would not have it for Faramir. He should at least have one friend that would not be forced to step back like that once they became too old. One of her nephews maybe? Imrahil had several sons. Region or Veryan maybe? Veryan was only one year older than Faramir and a nice enough boy. She would have to speak to her husband about that. “I am more worried what this friendship might do to your son, than worried about mine, Erhawn.” She said. “But… do not let my words burden you. A mother often contemplates strange things when it comes to her sons.”

 

Erhawn shook his head. “I appreciate your words, my Lady. But Thoronîar, he has to learn duty, he has to become a loyal soldier… he _has_ to. There is no other way for him. And if he is happy at the same time, why worry?” They saw both boys vanish through the archway, off to whatever mischief they might find.

 

Findulas straightened up, it was time to get back to her own tasks. Much as she enjoyed her role as a mother, she had duties to attend to as well. “I have to go to the Undercity myself, Erhawn,” she said. “there has been some dispute about the ancient crypt down there, which keeps the Council locked in standstill. Can you assign a guard to me, I do not like to walk that place alone.”

 

“I’ll assign myself, my Lady,” Erhawn snapped from his relaxed pose to watchfulness again. “that place is the worst maze of the entire city.”

 

 

Hidden behind one of the huge statues on the gallery of the Undercity Boromir peered down where his mother and Erhawn approached the crypts. “What are they doing here?” he whispered to Thoronîar who was ducked down beside him. “They never come here.”

 

“Maybe she is looking for you,” Thoroniâr suggested. “she came to the practice yard earlier today.”

 

Boromir made a face. “She will want me to read boring books on etiquette again, or on the boring elven history of her family.” He rolled his eyes. “as if anyone wanted to know what happened a thousand years ago.”

 

“Maybe she is just worried about you,” Thoronîar tried his best to be diplomatic and not say anything bad about Boromir’s Lady Mother, no matter how much her son might complain.

 

“Let’s just find out,” Boromir ducked low and crept along the narrow ledge to follow his mother and Erhawn.

 

Findulas thought she had heard something as they approached the ancient crypt. The Undercity was one of the oldest parts of the city, built deep into the Mountain, it had been supposed to be one of the most prestigious parts of the city, but by now it had become a quarter to house strangers and the poorest citizens, if any people at all. The crypt in question was said to date back to the city’s very founding. And the discussion whether or not it should be closed off had the council in a bind. Findulas was not quite sure what was so important about this crypt, so she chose to find out for herself.

 

But when she stepped into the low ceilinged hall with the few stone sarcophaguses she could not see anything special. A number of simple burial places, nothing that hinted at someone of import resting here, no statues, no names and certainly no other symbols to give her any decent hint. With a sigh she gestured Erhawn to follow her, he carried a torch that shed some light on the dusty crypt. Suddenly Findulas stopped, when she saw a shadow move to her side. “Erhawn!”

 

Her shout came too late, three dark figures emerged from the walls, two of them attacking Erhawn, the third coming after her. Findulas tried to run, but the door of the crypt fell shut. She was trapped. When she turned around, to her own horror she saw her son up on a ledge behind a pillar. Silently she willed him to run, to hide, to get away from this place. A blade came down on her and Findulas’ sun shattered forever.

 

TRB

 

June TA 2990 – The Shire

 

 Twelve year old Frodo Baggins was worried, more worried than ever in his young life. In the weeks and months after his parent’s drowning he had cried a lot, and while he still was sad a lot, he had calmed as spring came. Uncle Rori was nice enough and had come to Bag-End so Frodo could stay at his home until things were decided. And that was Frodo’s chief worry. His father had talked a lot about Uncle Bilbo, their benefactor, but no one had seen Bilbo Baggins in fifty years. He had left the Shire and aside of letters that were brought twice a year by a dwarven trader, no one had heard from him since. Some people like Lobelia Sackville-Baggins claimed that Bilbo was dead. Others whispered that he had simply settled down in foreign parts. And a lot of people were sure that Bilbo had a son of his own with a dwarf lady. And outrageous thought that had entertained the Shire for more than two decades.

 

And now Frodo was supposed to go and live with Uncle Bilbo. Which was his chief worry, was this Uncle Bilbo even alive still, or would he even want to take Frodo in. Uncle Rori had said that if Bilbo did not take him Frodo would have to live at Brandywine Hall with the other Brandybucks and Frodo disliked most of his Brandybuck cousins. He did not really fancy the thought to go and live with all of them in the chaos of Brandy Hall, or living close to that river where his parents had died. But what could he do if Uncle Bilbo never showed up? Frodo sighed, it was a terrible calamity.

 

Laughter and voices intruded into Frodo’s musings and he drew in his feet to stand up and peer through the thick culms of the June lilies. Down the hillpath, which was a shortcut compared to Bag-shot row, walked a group of strangers, their voices carrying through the warm air. “Of course you had to find two large horses, riding a sensible pony would never come to your mind,” the rider of a dark pony just said to another person leading two fairly tall horses. “you will never change, I will easily believe that. But getting Anvari to break his neck that way? I doubt your brother would approve of it.”

 

“I’ll rather have him on a horse that will carry him swiftly away from big troubles than on a pony that ends up as troll stew at the first chance.” The other stranger replied, he had an unusually deep voice.

 

Pushing the lilies aside, Frodo peered up to the path, excitedly he noticed that these had to be strangers, wandering dwarves or maybe Rangers. The one with the deep voice was really tall, with such long hair that he looked like a girl, he had a long bow strapped to his back and talked to the rider of the pony. Another dwarf with light hair and a fancy braid tucked behind his ear. His ear? Frodo blinked, this dwarf had a distinctly pointed ear and he wore no shoes… could he be a Hobbit? No, no Hobbit would look like that with a chainmail armor and leather coat.  Behind them were several more dwarves with horses. The strangers stopped at the backdoor of the garden. “And where is Rorimarc when he is needed?” the rider on the pony grumbled. “I bet he is in the market stocking the pantry like we were expecting the entire company for dinner.”

 

The entire group laughed. “We better go to the front door and see if someone is home.” One of them suggested.

 

“Oh no, the moment we show up in Bagshot row the entire place is going to know I am back, and I do not want to meet Lobelia ever again. At least not without Dwalin and a duck pond handy.”

 

“Are you meaning you do not trust us to rid you of disagreeable relations?” One of the other dwarves joked. “Bilbo – and here I thought we were friends.”

 

Startled Frodo jumped up. This – this was Mr. Bilbo Baggins? Mad Baggins of whom half the Shire was talking when any other gossip had been exhausted.

 

Bilbo sighed. “It can’t be helped, I am going to burgle my way into my own home.”

 

“That might not be entirely necessary,” Frodo piped up, appearing from the flower bushes, “though polite strangers would go through the front door.”

 

Startled Bilbo looked at the Hobbit boy standing in the flower bushes, he was about twelve years old, already quite tall for his age, with tousled brown locks and a mischievous glint in his eye. “And less polite home-comers would prefer not to entertain all Hobbiton tonight,” he replied. “My name is Bilbo Baggins and you must be Frodo.”

 

Frodo came closer to the gate and pulled back the bar so the horses could be led into the garden. “I… I am Frodo Baggins,” he said. “And you… you are Uncle Bilbo? Uncle Rorimarc said you might come here.”

 

“And where in the world is Rorimarc? No… don’t tell me, let me guess – he is holding his afternoon nap. Today he might have to wake before it is tea-time.” Bilbo said as they led the horses down to the meadow under the apple-trees. He turned to his companions. “Frodo this is…”

 

“Kíli,” the one with the long hair interrupted, taking the introduction into his own hands. “and this is my nephew Anvari.”

 

“Ánar and Hlevar,” the other two dwarves introduced themselves right after.

 

“A… a pleasure to meet you,” Frodo stumbled over the words, trying to behave.

 

From that moment on Frodo’s afternoon turned very exciting. While Bilbo went to wake Rorimarc and talk to him, he could show Anvari around in Bag-End. The young dwarf had never seen a Hobbit hole before and Frodo enjoyed poking around in the farthest reaches of the big hole with him. When they emerged again shortly before tea-time, Frodo heard Uncle Roricmarc speak rather loudly in the study. “You can’t just drag the poor lad off to goodness-knows-where, Bilbo! You might enjoy gallivanting about all the world with your friends but… Frodo needs a descent home and to grow some Hobbit-sense.”

 

“I rather think Hobbit-sense is overrated, Rorimarc, thank you very much. And as far as I can see the matter, it is out of your hands entirely. Drogo saw to that. And I will do my duty by the boy, he will be safe with us.”

 

Anvari gently pulled Frodo’s arm and guided him away from overhearing more of the adult’s arguing. That evening dinner was a tense affair, Rorimarc making a point to keep conversation at a minimum and nearly insisting that Frodo be sent to bed after. But Bilbo put his foot down on that part. “He can stay up, the lad will want to ask questions. He has been kept in the dark for far too long already.”

 

And with these extraordinary words Frodo was admitted into the parlor where the dwarves sat by the fire, two sitting on the floor, the others occupying chairs, with one chair left free for Bilbo. “Are… are you really to take me to some far-off place?” Frodo asked, shyly looking at all of them. “Where do you live?”

 

Kíli extended a hand to him, so Frodo could sit down on the hearth rug beside him. “It is true we live a long way from here. Far to the East, beyond ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands lies a single solitary peak… the Lonely Mountain,”

 

Bilbo sat quietly down in a chair, as he watched Kíli tell Frodo of the lonely Mountain. Three decades with Anvari had given Kíli an easy affinity with children it seemed. And the longer Kíli talked the wider Frodo’s eyes became, and after a while he began to ask questions of his own. Bilbo watched them and the idea of taking Frodo to Erebor never seemed better.

 

TRB

 

June 2990 – Minas Tirith

 

The House of Stewards in Rath Dínen was a dark place, other Houses of the Dead might be more beautiful than the palaces of the living, the halls where the House of Húrin rested were stark and bleak. Denethor stood, shoulders bowed at the sarcophagus of his beloved wife. Her death still felt like a dream, a nightmare from which he had only to wake. Only there was no waking. She had been murdered, along with the guardsman who had been with her. And his son, Boromir, had only just escaped being killed too. The worst of it was, he could not point his fingers at any known enemy. The attackers had gotten away, the last two pulling out when they realized they would not catch the boys in the maze of the Undercity.

 

Denethor’s eyes went to his sons who stood side by side, Faramir’s small face streaked with tears, Boromir’s face pale with shock. He had not yet come through the shock of the nightmarish events in the crypt. The pain would come in time, along with the realization, he was sure of that. At the moment the older brother had his arm wrapped protectively around his little brother. With an impatient gesture Denethor dismissed the last strangers, he could do without their faked grief or polite condolences, they knew nothing of his loss, of his family’s loss.

 

When the last had left, only the soft hissing of the torches echoed through the silence of Rath Dínen. Sometimes Denethor hated this place with a passion, better to burn than to be put to sleep in such a place, to rest eternally in the darkest stone. Maybe the native Kings of this land had been right when they had chosen the pyre for their funeral. Pushing aside the morbid thoughts he squatted down beside his sons, gently putting his arms around them. They would need him now, more than ever before. It was only them three left. Gently stroking their light hair – fair as Findulas had been – he waited for Faramir’s tears to subside and for Boromir to truly focus on him. “I wish this moment could have spared for another decade for both of you,” he said when both small faces looked at him. “but the time has come. Your mother was taken from us, she was killed by our enemies and no matter how much I try to shield you, I cannot protect you from this truth. From this moment on you will have to be strong and grown up like older boys, to look out for each other as if your mother was still with us.”

 

They were pale, lower lips quivering but they understood, they had to understand, there was no other way. They had learned a bitter lesson these last days, they had learned that there was no safety, no true shelter, even in the middle of this city, the enemy could strike and there was no protection from that. To ease the blow a little Denethor hugged both boys close, feeling them relax against him. He could not protect them in the way he wanted, but he could make sure they were prepared.

 

TRB

 

August TA 2990 – Trollshaws

 

Frodo’s eyes went wide when he saw the huge stone trolls standing between the Elderberry bushes, they really were huge! The last three weeks had been the most exciting of his entire life. Uncle Bilbo had really taken him on the grand journey to the Lonely Mountain and he was allowed to ride with Anvari on the tall black horse most of the time! Certainly travelling was arduous at times, gathering firewood, sleeping on the hard earth and being on a horse all day, but he was beginning to get the hang of it. And the stories Uncle Bilbo could tell! But for the moment he and Anvari were relegated to gather firewood, along with Ánar. Full of diligence Frodo followed Anvari, maybe they could find a dried fir like the night before?

 

Bilbo looked after the boys as they cantered off. He knew that Ánar would stay close and make sure they were safe. Mahal be thanked for the dwarves and their experience in travelling with children! Sometimes he was a little frightened with the way Kíli trusted Frodo to do things, but then he noticed that either Kíli or one of the brothers was close at hand to help if necessary. And Frodo seemed to grow taller each time he was allowed to do something on his own or with Anvari together. “I sometimes forget that this is how you grew up,” he said to Kíli who was taking care of the horses. “I have to stop fretting all the time.”

 

“The more Frodo has to do, the less time he has to think or feel lost and the more he learns,” Kíli said. “it is the way to grow strong. He is a good lad and very curious. He really is your nephew.”

 

“Strictly speaking we are cousins, first cousins on my father’s side and second cousins on my mother’s side,” Bilbo corrected. “which would make us third-brothers in a dwarven clan. Still… I am worried. We are getting further and further away from the Shire and he is beginning to feel it. He sees the Mountains draw closer and… I wonder when he will truly begin to feel that his home is far behind.”

 

“It will come and it will pass. You had your bouts of homesickness too,” Kíli pointed out.

 

“Me? No. I had hardly the time,” Bilbo teased him. “between you, your grouchy Uncle, the entire snoring crew and this crazy adventure…” he chuckled. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. But if you mention sage tonight, you take the storytelling.”

 

Kíli laughed. “Very well – I will take the storytelling and there will be sage. Lots of it, along with other seasoning.”

 

Late in the night, Bilbo woke up. The fire had burned low, the small flames still casting light on their quiet camp. Frodo was asleep on his bedroll, turning around fitfully, his small hands clutching the blanket, his lips forming words that were never spoken. Gently Bilbo tousled his hair, contemplating if he should wake the dreaming boy.

 

Heavy steps came closer; Kíli had left his watch post and came over to them. He squatted down beside the sleeping boy. _Nightmares?_ He asked with a quick Iglishmêk gesture.

 

 _Not sure._ Bilbo replied the same way. _He has slept fitfully now and then during the journey. Should I wake him?_

 

 _Not yet. Let me try something._ Kíli remained where he was simply balancing himself a bit better, he gestured Bilbo to not let go of Frodo as he began to hum a tune, a deep, sad tune. When he began to sing, Frodo began slowly to relax and snuggled up against Bilbo. The older Hobbit wrapped his arm around the sleeping child. The tune was soft and dark, sad and melancholic, and he was glad that Frodo could not understand the words in Khuzdul, that they would not haunt his sleep.

 

Let’s hide in the burrows, lets hide in the bogs,

the Dunlendings hunt, hear them move in the fogs,

Let me hide you swiftly, the hunters are near,

be still and be silent, for they must not hear.

 

Your father is sleeping far under the Mount,

we buried your mother where she'll not be found

your brother sleeps burned by Mirrormere's side,

come little one, come, I need you to hide.

 

Listen, my wee one, the loud thunder rolls,

as in the dark outside rummage the trolls,

Listen, my wee one, the heavy steps fall,

for it's the Orcs out there, they will kill us all.

 

Hide in the dark, never whisper a word,

hide in the corner to escape the sword,

Hide under the floor, duck down really low,

be still and be silent, you'll escape the blow.

 

Listen, my wee one, there out in the storm,

before the deep walls, there lurks the great worm,

Listen, my wee one, the long night is here,

outside the camp the Dunlendings are near.

 

Hide in the dark, never whisper a word,

hide in the corner to escape the sword,

Hide under the floor, duck down really low,

be still and be silent, you'll escape the blow.

 

Listen, my wee one, the years will pass by

but we'll meet again, just you, you and I

Listen, my wee one, to the halls of stone

you, you and me, we soon will come home.

 

Follow the fire, to guide home your way,

Follow the hammer, do not go astray,

Go down the river - I'll find you again,

Follow the others, the day I am slain.

 

Bilbo felt Frodo relax against him, drifting off into a deep slumber. He let the tune wash over him, closing his eyes too. He was still worried how all this, the loss of his parents and the journey would affect Frodo. But then… Kíli and many others had lived through worse and had come out fine in the end. Maybe Thorin was right, he needed to trust his heart on that.

 

TRB

 

September 2990 – Varengár Province, Easterling Empire

 

Idramar packed up the last little things inside the House, what was important was long stashed away in his saddlebags. It was strange, he had not thought of this place as home since his own childhood, but it still felt like home. Maybe that had been the reason he had brought the boys here in the first place – to have some understanding of a home, some measure of home at least. Five years – the last five years had been his longest absence from the troops as well. Not that he truly regretted it. After being stationed in barbaric Westlands for so long – and in that dank hole called Moria especially! – he had enjoyed being back in the Empire, even if it was only the backwater lands of his home province. The simply joys of a working aqueduct, reliable roads and a market town that saw traders from far and wide each new moon, had been surprisingly comfortable.

 

But now the time had come to move on. It had been good five years and he was grateful that he had not been forced to entrust his sons to the care of his extended family, but been able to look after them himself. Going outside the afternoon heat greeted him, the sun still shone mercilessly on the wide valley, the ground was caked and full of rifts. The river was barely a trickle of water, without the aqueduct the drought would have made life in these parts of the province next to impossible. Thus the irrigation systems watered the fields of wheat and millet, keeping the plantations from dying under the merciless sun.

 

Looking around Idramar’s eyes found the boys, who were chasing after each other with long sticks, pretending to be fighting. Idrakhán was twelve, already growing tall and taking after his mother with the agile built and finely chiseled features, while in ten year old Shakurán, Idramar could see himself and his own brother. Both boys had spent most of their time outside, the sun giving them a deep bronze tan. Idramar couldn’t help but smile, they were yet free of worries, their minds on playing with the boys down from the village or on outings into the Mountains with him. It would soon change – very soon.

 

He knew his heart should not be heavy about it, he was proud of his own chosen path. But a part of him knew that much like them, had he been asked all those years ago he’d have gladly stayed here forever, in the valley by the dying river, enduring the long summers and the fierce rains that came once the winds turned out on the far away sea. He shook his head, sentimentality wouldn’t do at all. He had been asked to commit both of his sons to their training before the year was out. Once the rain came and the river was rushing again, he’d bring them to Kar-Vinyamar for muster, they would both pass easily, after five years of training with him. Once they were off for their training he’d report back to Minas Morgul, more and more capable fighters were called to Gondor’s border. Maybe there would finally be some open action, not just the skulking around in the darkness.

 

A rumble high up in the skies made him look up. Clouds coiled above the valley, soon the blanketed out the sun. Idrakhán and Shakhurán came running to him, only moments before the clouds burst with an earsplitting thunder. Both boys reached him, he put his arms around them as he squatted down with them. “The storm is coming,” Idrakhán said softly. “but why…?”

 

“Because it is like us,” Idramar told him. “when our fathers were beaten at the fields of Dargorlad they vanished east, spreading out in the wastelands the elves did not care about, they vanished like the water under the sun. But we did not vanish, and we were not tamed to softness. Like the storm we will rise again.” The rain began to splatter down on them and Idramar looked up to the dark clouds unleashing their heavy water load. “Thus the Lord of Darkness reminds us how to endure.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D
> 
> Thanks to Malicean for helping with the stress pattern of the poem! THANKS


	28. The Dedicated

Spring 2997 TA – Ithilien

 

Boromir ducked as two Orc arrows whistled past him, hitting a tree trunk only a few paces away. Their archers were too cleverly deployed, hiding in the rocks of the hill-line above and unfortunately they were the smallest of all problems at the moment. At least Eradan was picking them off whenever they got too bold. But there were more Orcs in the woods, having successfully fractured their banner into a dozen single skirmishes. More Orcs came at him and he closer ranks with Turan and Bran as half a dozen fresh Orcs broke from the bushes and charged at them. Gripping the sword with both hands, Boromir parried the first hits of the Orc sabre, broke free and stabbed the creature right through the belly. He had barely time to yank his sword free when the next reached him, a blade hitting his arm, the chainmail took the worst brunt of the hit. He saw a huge black Orc close in and raise his axe against Bran. Disregarding his own cover Boromir sidestepped his own attacker and beheaded the one with the axe. Bran in turn took down Boromir’s opponent. A short nod between them and the fighting went on.

 

Sons of Gondor, that was what they were. Six years prior the eternal troubles at the border had flared into a full-fledged little war, with raids, skirmishes and a Siege to Osgiliath herself. The fighting was hard and Gondor had to pour more and more troops to the border by the Great River to not lose more territory. The rising pressure on the border and the high losses had forced replacement troops to be conscripted much more quickly and Boromir knew that the lowering of the recruitment age would be announced this very spring. Boromir himself had passed the trials of dedication only the last summer, three years below the standard age. There had to be examples, his father had said and Boromir had been itching for the trials anyway, though he had pushed himself hard to pass. The name of a Son of Gondor was hard earned, the trials were to weed out the weak in body or will, to weed out those who were not willing to dedicate themselves body and soul to Gondor’s defense. Boromir would honestly admit that he had come within a hair’s breadth of failing the third trial, but he had pulled through and been accepted into their ranks last Midsummer’s day.

 

Bran stumbled, his battle axe slipping from his hands, Boromir moved between him and Orc, blades clashing fiercely. It was only a moment until Turan recovered and flanked the Orc, the axeblade eating deep into the beast’s side. Jumping backwards Boromir turned against a small Orc that tried to sneak up on Eradan. One throw of his dagger made an end to the attempt to kill their archer.

 

“Thank you,” Bran yanked his axe free of the last Orc, swiftly checking the grounds around them. No new Orcs were close by, and Eradan had eliminated the archers in the vicinity.

 

Boromir’s answer was a curt nod towards Bran, while he kept an eye on the treeline from whence the Orcs had come. Being the youngest in their unit, he had fought hard to win the others acceptance. During the last year they had grown together as a team, in the constant fighting and skirmishes that wrecked Ithilien. In most moments now, neither of them realized any more how far apart they were in age or background. “Where are the others?” Boromir could hardly hear any fighting in the woods any more, but none of their half-banner had come to support them.

 

“East, towards the settlement,” Eradan pointed through the trees where the receding figure of a small Orc was visible through the undergrowth for a moment.

 

It did not need any words, the four of them set out at once. Eradan scouting ahead, moving swiftly through the uneven grounds, guiding them along the trail towards where they should find the rest of their unit, Boromir and Turan followed him quickly, knowing that Bran had their back. When they came over the hill they saw the Orcs fighting the rest of their unit inside the settlement, the fighting was still fierce and a part of their people were trapped between two buildings and a large force of black Orcs. “Those first,” Boromir had spoken the moment he saw the situation. “if we get our people out of that yard, we’ll have the numbers to push them out.” He knew that making suggestions to his older comrades was not something done, but Turan simply nodded.

 

“Makes sense, Boromir. Eradan – they are bound to have archers on the roofs, pick them off. Let’s do this.” Side by side the three fighters made their way down the overgrown hillside to get into Orc troop’s back, this fight had just begun.

 

TRB

 

Erebor

 

Bilbo heard the laughter before he could see them and was warned to swiftly step aside when he came in reach of the bastion’s stairwell. From above he could see Tolá sprint down the stairs, Frodo skittering down on the polished side of the stairs, followed by Wulfregar and guiding Narvi in their rapid descent. “Pull in your legs!” Bilbo heard him snap as they turned at the landing and jumped off the stairs, falling down to the landing of the second stairwell below. Seven years ago, when Frodo had come here, his heart had nearly stood still whenever he had seen Frodo do something like that – he was a Hobbit after all and did not have the hard bones of dwarf children who would think nothing of such a fall. But to this day Frodo had only suffered bruises from his adventures amongst Fíli’s children and he landed deftly on the stone landing below, helping Narvi to land safely.

 

Bilbo who had stopped for a moment shook his head. Aged nineteen by now, Frodo should begin to grow responsible and in a way he did, on the other hand he still had the chance to enjoy being a youth with his friends. Bilbo could hear him laugh from down below. “We better hurry, if Asutri catches us, we are in for it.” And off they darted further down the mighty stairwell.

 

“If they are running from Asutri again, they must have pranked Dwalin for the umpteenth time,” a deep voice behind Bilbo observed. “he never learns to guard against them.” Thorin had come down from the council hall and too watched the hasty retreat of the four pranksters.

 

“Dwalin enjoys the fun they poke at him,” Bilbo snorted. “I sometimes wonder who the bigger child is. He will eventually catch them, and it will be either sword or riding lessons in repayment for the prank. They will enjoy their afternoon.” While he sounded disapproving he actually was quite happy how well Frodo had integrated into Erebor. Fíli’s children had been wonderful in accepting ‘Mister Bilbo’s nephew’ and had dragged Frodo all over the Mountain within the first weeks after his arrival here. The twins – Asutri and Anvari – often taking the role of the responsible older brothers, and the other three the happy prankster pack that had taught Frodo more mischief than all Brandywine Hall could have together. But Bilbo could not find it in himself to find that regrettable. In spite of the tragedy in his young life, that certainly had changed Frodo deeply, his nephew was growing up well, learning much and still not lacking in laughter or friendship.

 

“When Kíli was young his ability to pull a prank and laugh so much irritated me,” Thorin replied as they walked off the stairs and into the main palace halls. “but when he grew older and that laughter faded away, I began to realize how precious it had been to begin with.”

 

Bilbo peered up to Thorin, at the age of nearly 230 the dwarven King was still an impressive figure and his usually stern mien often hiding his feelings. “If you admit to something like this, something is afoot,” he observed. “something that has you worried to lose something as precious.”

 

They walked into Thorin’s study and the dwarf turned to Bilbo. “You know what the writings you bring me are about,” he replied simply.

 

Bilbo sighed, putting the book, paper and detailed notes on the desk. “Blood adoption,” the topic had rested for a few years after Kíli’s and Anvari’s return, everyone had been happy how largely unchanged Anvari had been but the twins had needed time to readjust to each other. How they had managed to become twins again, to remain twins in spite of their separation had been a surprise. But recently Thorin had asked Bilbo again to research the topic. “I have detailed out all I could find,” Bilbo said, when he saw no reaction from Thorin to his words. “it is largely unusual but not at all unheard off. As it is very rare that a child is given up for blood adoption while the parents yet live, a formal resigning all blood ties to the child is required of the father and the whole ceremony needs at least twelve witnesses. Thorin… I have found only one case of a contested blood adoption of this kind – the case kept Durin III busy for a number of years and he eventually ruled that the ties of the heart came before the ties of the law, and that the fighter in question would be named to those parents he saw as such, which drew an entire new wrench into the works.”

 

“Thank you, Bilbo.” Bilbo could tell that Thorin wished to be alone, there was something in his demeanor, his stance that changed in such moments, it would always remind Bilbo of the unapproachable Thorin he had met in Bag End so long ago. He smiled and left, hoping that his notes would help Thorin. Outside in the hall he saw several familiar figures, who were probably on their way to Thorin, and he hoped their discussion would go well.

 

Thorin sat down and cast a look over Bilbo’s detailed notes on all the legal and traditional tangles of such a choice, and of all known examples of such an adoption. Decades ago, when Thorin had named Fíli his second son, he had not needed to pay attention to so many snags and tangles, as Fíli’s father was dead and buried. While he had known the outline of things when matters were different, but the details were important if the case was to be without backdoors.

 

“Sitting with your back to a door is the fastest way to get you killed,” the door at the side of Thorin’s study had opened nearly noiselessly and another dwarrow had walked in.

 

“I knew it was you Frérin, no other dwarf had managed to skill to skulk about like a cat,” Thorin replied, turning around to his brother. In the past decades Frérin had gone from the escaped prisoner back to a regular dwarrow, though he had retained the lean frame, his had gained back some muscle and again wore armor with the ease of a warrior born. His dark hair was devoid of adornments except for two family braids, and he wore a short beard, as much a concession as he had been willing to make to propriety. The shame of having been an Orc slave for so long was still rooted somewhere in his soul.

 

“And some assassin could have imitated by step, to make you believe it was I.” Frérin pointed out. “The way you disregard your own safety makes me glad you do not have a royal guards – they’d die from heart failure long before their time.”

 

Thorin saw the amused sparkle in Frérin’s fierce blue eyes and he knew his brother was no tad different there. They both had not been raised to be careful, or to preserve their own lives, they had been raced to face dangers and come out on top. Which had made Frérin the ideal mentor for Asutri. “What we are going to talk about might create enough of that, as is.” Thorin pointed out as he rose. “But… I needed to talk to you Frérin, before the boys arrive.”

 

Frérin met his eyes, a slight crease of his dark eyebrows betraying worry. “Thorin? Did something happen?”

 

“No, this is about what might happen – and what will happen,” Thorin walked past the desk and to the fireplace. Heavily he leaned his hand against the rough stone. “You know that Kíli is my son, my only child, Frérin. You knew Ida, you were there when Kíli was placed in Dís’ care…”

 

“Aye, he’s grown into a fine dwarf,” Frérin said, “not quite the Prince Grandfather might have approved off, but if he were here Thrór and Kíli would have some spectacular rows.”

 

“I quite agree,” Frérin’s words made Thorin smile for a moment, but his heart was too heavy, to keep smiling. “still… Kíli is my only child and he whole in himself, he does not have the longing for another, for his other half, he does not seek love and I doubt that his heart is quite capable of that kind of love.”

 

“More than one Prince had married and sired children without necessarily feeling the great love ever in his life,” Frérin replied, sensing the direction this was going. “and while I agree that Kíli is certainly one dwarf who will never experience romantic love, he has a compassionate soul and a good heart, he’d make it easy for many a dwarrowdam to love him.”

 

“But he will not,” Thorin shook his head. “we have talked about it and Kíli is quite clear on that aspect. He will have no one belong to him nor belong to someone in that sense.” Looking up he tried to face Frérin. “Which forces me to bring a strict order to the line of succession, before I am too old or die unexpectedly.” Now it was out, at least the beginning of it.

 

“Thorin!” Frérin bridged the gap between them, reaching for his shoulders. “Do tell me that you are not worried about my reaction to that? I have been out of the succession from the day the Orcs grabbed me, and glad as I am that could return home in the end… I am not part of the royal line anymore.”

 

“You are and you always will be,” Thorin said fiercely, returning the gesture to clasp Frérin’s shoulder. “you will be part of the House until the end of days, but… I have to create a clear line of succession should something happen to me and Kíli.”

 

Frérin smiled, he could see Thorin’s worries, it was so like his brother to brood on topics that were not necessary to worry about. “Fíli then,” he said. “he is your second son and the succession would revert to him, should Kíli die childless.”

 

“Aye, though as Fíli is older than Kíli, I am afraid I will have to consider another path altogether.” Thorin explained, glad to be able to talk it over with Frérin. “To ensure that there are no doubts, no confusion about the succession it would be best if Kíli formally adopted one Fíli’s sons, thus ensuring the line was unbroken.”

 

“No!” Kíli, who had just joined them had heard the last words and now strode up to them. “how can you even think about forcing Fíli to give up one of his sons like that?” Anger shone clearly in the dark eyes and Thorin could see the temper uncoil in his son like a dragon flapping his wings.

 

“Kíli, be reasonable and listen first…”

 

“There is nothing to be reasonable about!” Kíli snapped. “If I die Fíli and his family are the next in line anyway, without the necessity to take one of their children away from them. And if this is about some people murmuring that I should have children – I’ll gladly step down from my place and leave Fíli to be the heir. He’d make a better King any day.”

 

“And he tells you that you will do nothing so outrageous.” As he had been called Fíli too entered the rooms, he largely ignored the older dwarves and approached his brother. “We have been over that in the past, little bro,” he said gently, in that voice that would make Kíli calm down a lot easily. “you are Thorin’s son and heir, nothing will change that.”

 

Thorin watched Kíli’s shoulders sag slightly, relaxing into a less aggressive stance, the angry storm abiding as quickly as it had come when Kíli pulled Fíli into a hug, their foreheads touching. “I still would never steal one of your children, that one of them will follow me, should I fall is beyond doubt, they are my nephews it does need any stupid adoptions for that.” Sometimes Thorin was still amazed on how Kíli would calm down in Fíli’s presence, the older of the brothers also seemed to be able to read nearly any mood of Kíli correctly. But this time Fíli startled.

 

“Adoption? Succession?” He asked pulling back slightly to look at Kíli’s face. “What are you talking about?”

 

“So they didn’t tell you either?” Kíli’s brows became a steep V. “It seems Thorin and Frérin were making plans on succession, involving the adoption of one of your children when I came in.”

 

Fíli cast a confused glance towards Thorin, but relegated that question to second, keeping his main focus on his brother. “Can we begin with what you just said about my sons?” he asked, his voice firm but gentle still. “I know that you like the boys, and what you did for Anvari was more than wonderful… but one day you will have a wife and children of your own, Kíli. Some dwarrowdam will tame your wild heart and bear your children.”

 

Kíli shook his head with emphasis. “No, Fíli, there is none such love for me, and there never will be.” Their eyes met and for a moment Thorin perceived an almost shy expression in Kíli’s eyes. His son – who would go up against trolls, orcs and stonewyrms without blinking, looked nervous when he had to explain something to his brother, under different circumstances he would have been amused. “I always knew should I fall young, you’d be the heir,” Kíli went on. “and that… that should I truly follow Thorin one day, one of your boys would succeed me when my time came.”

 

“Let me sit down for a moment,” Fíli stepped back from his brother to sit on one of the chairs by the fireplace. He felt like the ground had just opened under him. Ever since they had retaken the Mountain Fíli had done all he could to support Thorin and his brother, growing more and more into his role in their trio and he had expected that this role would continue when they day came for his brother to take the throne. Kíli was a wonderful leader but he had no patience for the day-to-day runnings of the Mountain. And while Fíli had been happy to see his children well-liked by their granduncles and their Uncle Kíli he had never considered that any of them might be in the direct line of succession. After all Kíli was still young, good looking and with enough dwarrowdam swooning after him. Hearing from his brother that he considered one of his boys as an heir came as a harsh surprise.

 

“Fíli… if you disagree, we’ll find a way,” Kíli had squatted down beside his brother’s chair, looking up to him, worry in his dark eyes. Thorin lightly touched Frérin’s shoulder, indicating him to not interfere. Much like them, the two brothers had to work this out, before discussing it with them.

 

Pulled from his shock, Fíli looked at Kíli, in that pose, looking up, a wild dark mane framing his face and black eyes pleading with him to at least talk, it was easy to forget that Kíli was 136 years old and no 70 anymore. He still had that knack to talk with his eyes. “ _Kithál,_ I am not angry at you – I just have to take this in.” Fíli said softly. “I never considered any of the boys in danger of being in close line of succession. And… it feels wrong. Mother was right when she insisted that you learn the truth before we went on the quest, and seeing how you, and maybe even Thorin, are considering one of my sons for such a role… it feels as much like stealing your legacy like it would have been had mother kept her secret.”

 

“And I often wished she had kept her silence,” Kíli kept steadily meeting his brother’s gaze. “because it would never have made you doubt yourself, doubt that we are brothers.”

 

Thorin saw the danger signs all too clearly, while having come to accept the situation years ago, the revelation about their different parentage was not something Kíli had ever taken easily. In spite of having wanted them to sort this between themselves, he joined them, pulling another chair close to sit. “And to this day I am glad she forced my hand,” he replied to what had been said last. “I shudder to think what might have happened had I fallen and you been left behind without a clear line of succession. Dáin… he always was ambitious and I do not like to think of what kind of chaos might have risen from it.” It was truly nothing he wanted to imagine, he had come close to dying in the Battle at the Gates and even when he had passed out after Azog died, he had at least known that his affairs were in order, his line secure. “And while I know that this is hurtful for the both of you, this is a necessity I cannot spare you from. The world is getting darker, shadows again creep into Dol Guldur and there are whispers of a new dread commander having taken hold of this place, the East is getting restless – I fear a storm may come before long. And I would prefer to have set a clear line of succession in case too many of us fall in battle.”

 

Fíli’s eyes turned from his brother to Thorin, and he could see the worry in the King’s expression all too clearly. Thorin never said something he did not mean and if he was willing to push so hard for this. Inwardly Fíli sighed, he knew how hard Thorin had fought to achieve all this, to bring their people home, to give them back their pride, their homeland… and of course he wanted to be sure the future lay secure, with no more snags from greedy relations and scheming Lords. Could he deny Thorin his wish after all that Thorin had gone through to secure Erebor? Fíli looked down, averting his eyes from both their glances. Wasn’t it as greedy to want one of his sons to be the next in line after Kíli? Did considering this make him no better than Dáin or Grísela?

 

“Don’t you dare to put yourself down over this!” Kíli impulsively said, he might not be able to truly sense Fíli’s thoughts in the bond but he knew the associated feelings well enough. “It is us who are pushing you, not you trying to scheme. Fíli… how can you ever think that badly of yourself?”

 

Fíli looked up, at both of them and his heart was full for a moment. They had gone all the way together, and they would continue to do so, there was nothing they could not face together. “I will of course have to discuss this with Fjalaris,” he said firmly. “and of whom have you been thinking, if you were already discussing the case?”

 

“Asutri,” Thorin replied.

 

“Anvari,” Kíli said at the very same moment, then both looked at each other surprised.

 

Having watched from the background Frérin couldn’t help but laugh. “I believe this is going to be a long discussion.”

 

TRB

 

Ithilien

 

The ruins were still smoldering, the scent of ash and blood hung heavily in the air. Boromir helped Turan to carry another wounded soldier to the small makeshift camp outside the settlement. It was one of the last to be found, most of the others had already been found. The body-count was grim, they had lost a quarter of their strength, their Captain fallen and his second dying shortly after being found. Faldir, who was the next in rank was wounded as well. “How many captive?” he asked, while Thoronîar was quickly bandaging his bleeding side.

 

“About 300 people in this settlement and the next,” Eradar summed it up. Hailing from Ithilien he knew the numbers of the settlements along the river best. “by the way they dragged them off, they will be headed for the Thorn Fortress. Not that there’s anything new to that strategy.”

 

“We cannot follow them,” Faldir pushed himself to his feet, standing shakily. “we do not have the men to take on the Thorn fortress, and we do not have orders to do so. We were to repel the raiders and return to Osgiliath.”

 

“Three hundred people, women and children among them!” Eradar snapped. “Do you know what awaits them on the other side of the border? We can’t just leave them in enemy hands.”

 

Faldir shook his head. “Orders are orders, we would stand no chance to rescue them either way.”

 

Boromir saw at once what Faldir was doing wrong, he was defending the orders, instead of putting them through. And it was a bad set of orders at that. “Can we get support from Osgiliath or Cair Andros?” Boromir asked Faldir. “We could try to cut them off from the Rise that leads to the Thorn fortress.”

 

“We already stand little chance to reach them before they are inside the Thorn,” Faldir replied. “and I doubt we would get one man from either Osgiliath or Cair Andros for such a venture. I know it is distasteful but we cannot rescue these people.”

 

“You cannot do this!” Eradar’s voice echoed genuine shock. “These people are all that holds this side of the river against the Shadow, if we give them up… we might as well throw away our swords.”

 

“Eradan,” Boromir stepped up to the older archer. He did not know what to say, it was _wrong_ to give up on their people, and he had no idea how to console someone who had lived all his life in this land, fighting to hold the border against the darkness – and who now was let down by those who should have supported him. “Maybe we can think of something else?” He did not know yet what this something was, but if they came back with a decent plan, Baranor, the commander of Osgiliath, would listen.

 

“There has to be another option, M’Lord.” Bran had spoken; he twenty-seven year old soldier stood leaning on his spear. “We can’t leave them in enemy hands.”

 

The address made Boromir nearly jump, for the last year he had simply been ‘Boromir’, treated the same as everyone else in the unit, no higher or better than Bran, the son of woodsman or Turan, the son of an armorer from Minas Tirith. He had grown into that role well but now that he was suddenly startled out of it, he needed a moment to adjust. For it was not just Bran, Turan and Eradar, who certainly knew him best, but also others of their unit that turned to him.

 

His throat tightened. They were all older than him, many of them had a number of years of fighting more to their names than him, and they all disagreed with Faldir or his weak attempt at taking the reins. It was to him that they turned and expected he’d have a plan, how… how could they think that he knew better than them? _Think_ he told himself, _you need to make sense now._ He could tell them that he was with Faldir and they must march back to Osgiliath… only that he could not make himself say it. They all had sworn to defend Gondor and their people. _Gondor above all. My life for Gondor. No other ties but her._ It was not an oath easily taken or broken, and if they abandoned their people to the Enemy… what else were they doing but breaking their word?

 

His eyes sought Thoronîar’s calm gaze, there was no indication what his friend was thinking, but he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Thoronîar would be with him, no matter what. It was a good feeling. “Eradar, get the other scouts, I need all you know on the Thorn fortress, especially on the access ways.” He said, surprised how steady his voice was. “Thoronîar, see that the lightly injured get on the way to bring the severely injured back across the river – the faster they leave the less the chance they will get caught in the backwash of our mission. Turan – take stock of how many able-bodied fighters we still have and organize them into even groups with archers and scouts for each.”

 

“Boromir – you cannot do this!” Faldir tried to intercede, but his words were half-hearted. Suddenly Boromir realized that Faldir too disliked the orders but did not have the will to struggle against them. He was a good man, but set in his ways.

 

“Faldir, you better go with the injured. You can hardly stand.” Boromir tried to no go back to the argument. “that way you will not face punishment for breaking orders, when we come back.”

 

“It’s not the lashes I fear,” Faldir said, shaking his head. “you will get yourselves killed.”

 

Eradan returned with two other scouts, one of them a Ranger who could contribute a more detailed map of the lands surrounding the Thorn. Boromir had seen that type of maps before – the Ithilien Rangers had been scouting the Mountains of Shadow for generations and many such a map had been passed down over countless generations of fighters. Putting them on a stone, he studied the fine lines sketching out the lay of the land around the Thorn fortress. A part of him felt cold inside… could he really do this? Come up with a plan, one plan that worked? What had he done that they trusted him like that? Was it simply because they believed into the myth of his family? Pushing aside the doubts he focused on the map, somehow the sketch looked familiar. Had he seen a detailed map of this part of the Mountains before? He was sure he had not, but maybe he had and had forgotten.

 

“Is this a bridge?” he asked, pointing to a fine line connecting two ridges.

 

“No, it is an aqueduct,” Eradan replied. “the Easterlings built it when they built the Thorn centuries ago. But they were forbidden to finish it. The Lords of the Minas Morgul probably disliked the idea of green in their Mountains. It is useless, just a big ruin in the valley of dust-snakes.”

 

“It is our way out,” Boromir said, seeing an option, a plan form the longer he studied the map. “it may not be finished but it reaches to the fortress already. We will use the dust ravine to get close to the fortress as unseen as possible and slip inside through the dry sewers you have noted here. But to get out we need an unexpected way – a way they will not think of blocking and this big ruin is providing just that.”

 

Turan and Bran returned from their respective tasks and Boromir began to explain the plan to them. A part of him still expected them to tell him this was crazy, but outside some very constructive contributions on their part, they accepted the idea. An hour later all of their remaining fighters were ready to march, when Boromir took point with his group he felt a strange chill settle on his shoulders. Whatever would come of this mission, he would never be able to go back behind this moment.

 

TRB

 

Minas Tirith

 

_“… known as the lesser child of the dawn star quicksilver is a seemingly unassuming material that gains its strong abilities through processes of change and interaction with other substances. In that the Wise Man will recognize the same qualities that are needed in a student to be shaped through being exposed to new knowledge. The path of secret wisdom requires a commitment to the three parts of wisdom, which are the knowledge of Strength, the Knowledge of Secret Lore and the Knowledge of the Words of Power and a student wishing to master these, must be willing to change as the quicksilver does when exposed to…”_

Faramir looked up from the dusty page and rubbed his eyes. Fascinating as many of Tar-Minasthil’s writings were, they were also tedious in their own way and the Adûnaic he had written was riddled with bouts of Sindarin grammar and words that forced Faramir to drag out a dozen ancient tomes to find a translation.

 

“Some people should at least think of eating or drinking now and then. If they have any space left on their tables, that is.” Veryan had walked in, like so often he had grabbed some tea and food from the kitchens when he went to check up on Faramir.

 

Smiling at his cousin Faramir felt only mildly chastised. When Veryan had been brought to Minas Tirith as a companion for Faramir, he had felt as little angry, because he did not need an older cousin to look out for him. But he had swiftly come to appreciate Veryan’s company, for he would listen to Faramir talk about books without being bored and would drag him out to practice archery and swordplay. He was someone to laugh with or confide in without feeling awkward about it. Faramir snatched the tea, grateful for something to drink. “Have you seen my father, Veryan? He said he wished to see this translation before second watch being rung, and it must be past third already.”

 

“Fifth watch will be called shortly,” Veryan replied, placing the plate with the bread and cheese on the windowsill. “and no, I have not seen your father all day. Come to think of it, my father too looked for him around noon, because of some council matters and he did not find him either.”

 

Rising from his chair, Faramir forgot about being hungry. “Run down to Lord Captain Turayne and see if he knows anything, while I will see what I can learn from the servants.” Veryan turned at once to go and see what he could find out, while Faramir went the opposite way towards the inner courtyard. It was another aspect of their friendship – Veryan knew exactly when the moment was there to revert from being a friend, to taking orders and he did so gracefully.

 

Entering the small courtyard Faramir looked for the guardpost by the upper postern, the post would not have changed since First watch had been called. Approaching the man Faramir straightened up, his jaw setting in a firm line. “Have you seen the Lord Denethor?” he asked the guardsman, trying to sound as calm and firm as he could. At age 14 his voice change lay behind him but had unfortunately come out with too light a voice still, making him sound young to his own ears.

 

“He went to the Tower of Kings and has not left since, my Lord.” The guard answered.

 

The tower of Kings, Faramir knew his father went there at times and he wished to be alone there. But he had never overstayed the time for a meeting of the Noble Council or forgotten other appointments. Something must be wrong there. For a moment Faramir considered sending for a healer, but then thought the better of it. If this was a secret it best remained in the family. Departing from the guard he went to the ancient door of the Tower of Kings. The Tower had been in disuse since the death of the last King, excepting a few times of crisis when the lower levels had been used for storage.

 

Firmly Faramir put his hand on the handle and used his shoulder to push the door open. Inside he saw a dusty stairwell, heavy flocks of grey dust scattered everywhere. They made it easier to see the footsteps leading up the stairwell. He hastened up the long stair tower, passing a number of closed doors until reaching a door slightly ajar on the topmost platform. His breath was flying from running, and he did not dare to waste time, pushing the door open wide.

 

Inside the room he saw two stone chairs and a table with something covered by cloth on it. His father was sitting crumbled in one of the chairs, his hands clutched against his chest. Ever since the horrible day seven years ago, when Faramir’s mother had died, he had seen his father become more pale, more tired… but only now he noticed how frail his father looked. In spite the dark hair and sharp eyes, his form was fragile, thin and looked like he was drained of too much life. He did not look up when Faramir entered.

 

“Father!” Faramir hurried to Denethor’s side, swiftly checking for injuries. But luckily there was no sign of any physical damage. “Shall I send for a healer?”

 

“No,” Denethor looked up, his hawk-like eyes warming a little when he saw his son. “I am not injured, only tired. So very tired.”

 

Having studied the ancient lore of Numenór for the last seven years with his father, Faramir began to put together the signs he was seeing. Denethor’s frame was frail, his skin pale and he was exhausted, there was one reason that could cause all this and it was strain on the level of mind and soul, if delving too deep into the arcane arts of Numenór became too straining these signs would set in. “You need to rest,” Faramir said gently. “whatever you did, it drained you.”

 

A weak smile lit up the drained features of Denethor. “You would see where your brother is blind, Faramir. No one sees it, but you.” He gently touched his shoulder. “Had I succeeded I would deem it a price well paid. But…I do not have the talent and no amount of strength alone can make up for that lack.”

 

“What if I were to lend you some of my strength?” Faramir had read about that aspect of arcane lore in Numenór, it belonged to the Wisdom of Strength, the easiest parts of the three parts on the way to true wisdom.

 

“You do not know what you are saying, Faramir. I could not ask you to take the risk… you may have gifts surpassing my own, but you are too young.” Denethor shook his head. “I would not put you to such a deathly risk.”

 

“If you are taking such risk, father then it is my duty to aid you,” Faramir insisted. “much as it is my brother’s duty to fight for Gondor.”

 

“Your brother… my worry is about him too. Something is stirring, a danger I cannot see. I cannot see…” Denethor bowed his head, leaning his forehead into his hands. “And I cannot ask you to see for me.”

 

“Why not?” Faramir asked, determined. He would not allow his father to suffer alone, not if he could aid him. “Tell me what I need to learn, and I will get to it right away.”

 

“It is not about learning, son.” Denethor looked up to the table. “it is about the talent of foresight, about the power of will to hold your course in the whirl of other wills and to survive the touch of something so strong. The risk… is great.”

 

“Yet you deem it necessary to take it.” Faramir pointed out. “So it is necessary for Gondor, and if I can aid you…”

 

Denethor straightened up a little. “Sit down on the other chair, opposite of me, if you are truly willing to try. But understand… if you feel it gets too much you break off before it is too late.”

 

Faramir rose and went around the table to sit opposite of his father. “Is this… is this the seeing stone of the Kings?” he asked, recalling the books he had read on the Palantrí. They were awe-inspiring objects of power, remnant of the First Age of the Sun, when the Elves had created them and they had come to Numenór with the first King, the son of Eärendil.

 

“It is and you will not face it alone yet, Faramir.” Denethor said. “we will do this together, so my experience can guide you. You have the inborn gift of the sight stronger than anyone else I know off in this generation. The stone may show you many things, many of them dangerous – focus on your brother for the moment.”

 

Faramir placed his hands beside the stone, when Denethor removed the blue silk cloth from the orb. The moment his fingers touched the cool surface, he felt a yank going through his body, or was it his body at all? He thought of his brother, and suddenly he felt like he was flying – flying on the wings of a hawk above the wide green lands. His heart raced as he tried to not get lost in the sensation. And suddenly he was flying high above a fortress in the Mountains of Shadow. The Thorn fortress. He could see his brother and his comrades fight inside a dusty yard, dead Orcs and dead Easterlings littering the ground, a good number of dead Gondorians too.

 

His sight swirled like he was circling the fortress and he saw people – hundreds of them – climb a long ruin, an aqueduct ruin to escape from the slave pens. While Boromir and his men fought and distracted the Easterlings, others freed the captives from the slave pens. Hundreds… many many hundred captive Gondorians would escape. Down in the yard he saw Boromir fight against a young Easterling, a warrior that stood out so clearly from the others, their fight fierce and brutal, still… strangely honorable all the same. Somehow Faramir knew that his brother and his opponent would meet again. His sight swirled anew and he saw the people and the fighters escape along the ancient ruin, fleeing from the shadow. And he _knew_ they would come home beyond a doubt, they would make it.

 

Opening his eyes Faramir was suddenly thrust back into the confines of his body and again sat opposite of his father in the hall of the tower. While he was tired and dizzy he felt jubilant. They had done it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	29. When the Night comes

TA 3002 – Outskirts of the Ephel Duath

 

Shakurán stood shoulders squared in front of the messenger, not showing any trepidation nor nervousness. The messenger might think he was some special but at the end of the day he was only a lowly errand boy and he was a Southron on top of that. Neither Southrons nor Haradrim were entirely reliable, Shakurán had learned in his years of service in this land. “I already told you, I have no orders to hand my captive over to you, least of all to your Varigan commander.” He said, staring directly into the Southron’s eyes, satisfied to see the man flinch. Few would bear the gaze of a Shadow-eyed. Shakurán had earned the dark eyes, the honor to be raised to the ranks of those touched by the Shadow only two years ago, the very last trial he had passed side by side with his brother. “So scurry off and tell the undeserving Captain that he can go back to skulking up in the Thorn, I’ll have a captive to deliver.”

 

The messenger glared at him. “See what comes of your pride, Easterling. I have sent word to the City of Shadow, may they flay your soul for disobedience.”

 

Shakurán shrugged and returned to the dusty vale where his Drakhár was sitting on the rocks, flapping its scaled wings. The two guards waiting there were Dorvinión, and while Shakurán knew that the Dorvinión served only reluctantly in the dark armies, he knew the two would not risk retaliations against their families by becoming traitor. “Any troubles?” he asked the older of the two.

 

“None whatsoever. The captive woke an hour ago and we gave him some water, as per your orders and then put him back to sleep. He might have heard some of your arguing with the Orcs and their fine messenger down the road.”

 

While both Dorvinión soldiers were unhappy having to serve the Shadow, they enjoyed it immensely when they saw an Easterling put the lower ranks into place. Shakurán hid his amusement. Dorvinión had been annexed not that long ago and they were still unused to the Imperial Rule and serving the Shadow, but they were a highly intelligent, civilized nation, give it some time and show them that they could earn a place far above the common barbarians from the South and they would come to enjoy their new station. “Good, I don’t want him to hear too much before he can be put through conversion. I didn’t go to all this length to snatch him right from Osgiliath’s fabulous ruins to lose him to some Orcs wanting to play.”

 

He cast a glance at the unconscious captive, recalling the day they had first met. It had been at the Thorn fortress. Shakurán had only been there on the march to the Ash peaks, when he had seen the Varigan commander of the fortress fill the place up with fresh catches from the borderlands. Not a smart tactic but none of Shakurán’s business at the time, until the nightly raid had come – a very successful nightly raid as far as such things went, led by a young Gondorian soldier about his own age. He well remembered the fierce fight in the yard, they both had gone out of that duel with a few scars. Only a year later Shakurán had learned that the man in question was Boromir, son of the Ruling Steward of Gondor and they had fought against each other in Ithilien twice since.

 

He gestured the Dorvinión to pack the captive on the Drakhar, while he too mounted the winged beast. It was only a short flight and Shakurán did not risk allowing his Drakhár to rise too high above the ground, he did not want to be seen, not until the Drakhár was resupplied for the long flight east, to the City of Tears. It had long been debated to create a place for conversion closer to the borderlands, but unfortunately Mordor was nearly as barbaric as the western lands were said to be – not the right surroundings for a newly converted captive once the initial resistance had been overcome. The Eastern Empire had seen great successes with the conversion in the past, the only flaw in the process had ever been that it did not work on disloyal Easterlings, their own exemption to this had been a gift long ago… given to their ancestors who had freely chosen to follow the Lord of the Night. Only that among their descendants were some who could do with some conversion, or so Shakurán had heard.

 

He guided his Drakhar to the landing site high above the City of Shadow, built high into the Mountains of Shadow, the landing served the Fell beasts, Drakhár and occasional minor dragon in the service of the dark armies. Once the Drakhár had hit ground, soldiers came hurrying to inquire what was needed. “Feeding and preparing for a long flight. I need to be off before dawn, High Commander Rukhán’s orders,” Shakhurán informed them.

 

“Rukhán’s orders?” The commander of the landing, a grim and grizzled Easterling approached them. “then you are Shakurán of the fifth Drakhár. Your orders have been countermanded by the Lords of Minas Morgul. You are to deliver the prisoner to them immediately.”

 

“Minas Morgul?” Shakurán felt a slight shiver run down his spine. To serve in the city of Shadow was a two-edged honor, and some things that went on in that city were simply… not spoken off. “He was slated for conversion, once he’s been in those dungeons he will be useless for anything. They deliver only broken messes, and what sense is that?”

 

The older Easterling gestured the other soldiers to begone. “He is not for conversion, but for information and most likely for breaking, now. Rukhán’s plan while certainly brilliant in his own way, has been discarded by the Lords of the City. If you are smart you do not argue the case any longer.”

 

Frustrated Shakurán shook his head. “Do you think I went through all the trouble to capture him alive, to snatch him out under the nose of their light-cursed Ranger-General Irdáin to simply see him broken in Minas Morgul? Son of the Steward or no, he can’t know that much valuable information to make it worthwhile. But he has _skill_ and he is _dangerous._ If we convert him, he will be an _asset_ and I was taught we are not in the business of wasting assets.”

 

The older man’s face lit up in a grim smile. “Spoken like a true son of the Empire, Shakurán. You will learn that serving the Shadow is not the same as to serve to Emperor Jadhur, may his rule last a thousand years. You have your orders and I’d not try to argue them or you might land in the very same cell as an object of demonstration.”

 

“And with whom would I have to take up the case, if I were just insane enough to try?” Shakurán may still be adjusting from serving in the Empire to serving in the Shadowed Lands, but he had already learned that those who backed down easily were viewed as weak and useless under the Shadow.

 

_That would be me._

 

The invisible voice curled around his very soul like a painful whip, sending tendrils of agony down into his bones. Shakurán’s breath became ragged, from the fleeting touch of pure darkness. He looked around, to mortal eyes it still seemed that they were alone on the platform, but through the dark eyes Shakurán could see more than just the living world, revealing a pale, ghostly form standing elevated on the stairs to their right.

 

Both Easterlings reacted at the same moment, dropping to their knees before the Nazgûl Lord. To a stranger the pale figure would not be different from the other Lords ruling in the City of Shadow, but to them there were small details, like the pale seven-pronged crown that told them they were in the face of Mekhalîl, fourth of the Nine Lords, formerly a Lord of the Numenórans.

 

_You are on the verge of disobedience._

 

Shakurán felt the voice again, directed only at him this time. The pain was still fierce, cutting towards his heart and lung, however Shakurán had been raised with the worship in the Black Temples of the East and pain was an essential part of serving the Shadow, those who would not bear the pain were too weak to serve. “The captive cannot have much in terms of useful information, my Lord.” He spoke up, forcing his voice to remain steady. He was a warrior of the east, not a simpering slave. “But if he were converted he could serve the Great Lord for many a decade and bring doubt to the hearts of our enemies.”

 

_A bold plan, as bold as you are to argue your orders with me. Look at me._

Lifting his chin Shakurán looked directly at the face of the ghost, the gift of the dark eyes allowed him to perceive the face of the Nazgûl Lord much in the form it would have held in life, instead of the dread apparition a light eye might perceive. Their eyes met and inside the ghost’s eyes Shakurán saw a Shadow, darkness behind the very gaze of the ghost. He could not look away as the darkness drew him in, an abyss of Night swallowing him up, darkness stretching into eternity and a fiery wheel spinning in the night. The flames were searing like lances of sheer agony, the darkness the cloak to shield him… it was horrifying and it was _glorious._ Even in moments of deep meditation in the Dark Temple he had only been allowed glimpses at the true darkness, and while his body still shook in fierce pain, his soul soared, feeling the darkness like a storm under the wings. It ended as fast as it had begun and he was again back in his body, though unable to feel any of the pain that he had perceived before.

 

_Your captive may be a danger to the darkness itself. Have him delivered to the City within the hour._

“As you order it, my Lord, it shall be done.” Shakurán found his voice again, he still did not like the order, it was a terrible waste, but he would obey.

 

The apparition before them paled away, vanishing into the winds, leaving nothing behind but a lingering echo. The old Easterling got to his feet, helping Shakurán up. “I had my doubts you had what it takes to serve here, boy,” he said. “but it seems I was wrong about it. Let’s see your captive delivered and your Drakhár stabled. Welcome to Minas Morgul.”

 

TRB

 

Erebor

 

Fíli always knew where to find his brother, he usually did not need to think about it because it was terribly obvious where to find Kíli. Normally, when things ran smoothly, he’d be found with Dwalin, or on whatever problem Dwalin had pointed him to and Fíli would readily admit that between those two Erebor’s troops and fortifications had grown into mighty proportions. If there had been council meetings or court duties, Kíli would attend and retreat behind that impassive mien that told Fíli that his brother was thoroughly bored. Kíli hated longwinded talks with a passion, his solutions were direct, with little words and little regards on who’s toes they stepped, but he had a pragmatic eye for the very core of a problem. Which made them a good team, Kíli would often see _where_ they had to go for the solution and Fíli would work out _how_ to get it done with minimal fuss.

 

In between Fíli could be sure to find Anvari with Kíli, his brother was as much mentor to Anvari as Frérin was to Asutri. A topic that come to cause some tension in the family of late, and even caused Kíli and Thorin to clash frequently. It had left Fíli to try and smooth the waves, though it had been harder than ever before. Fíli was not blind, he had been aware of the influence he wielded with his Uncle and brother for many a decade, often he was still amazed how much he could talk them around, how much they would listen to him or how often they tried to rein in their warring tempers for his sake. And he had tried to wield that influence wisely, to aid them when their fierce temper stood in their own way but never to abuse the influence he had over them. It had often made him question his own opinions, and his own actions. Fjalaris sometimes teased him that he was overthinking things, but in the end she understood why Fíli did it.

 

Slowly descending the long stairs into the deeps of the Mountain Fíli never needed to wonder if he truly was walking towards his brother, even without their bond telling him, he would have known. When Kíli wanted to think, or was upset, he went down to the spellforge, deep under the stone. And after his more than frequent arguments with Thorin the spellforge was the place where he’d be found in the dark hours after Nightwatch was called. The regular echoing of a hammer guided Fíli’s way through the long dark stairwell that led into the spellforge. It was an eerie place to his eyes – built into the deeps of the Mountain, the hall looked much like a natural cavern expanded just enough to hold room for all items necessary. Two dark furnaces were in the background, while in the front; beside the black anvil were two fireplaces. One made from dark stone, ablaze with dwarven fire, greedily licking up on the rough stone holding it, the other was a fireplace set in roughly cut crystals holding a blue fire, blazing just a brightly. The two fires were the only lights inside the dark room.

 

Fíli could see the easily familiar figure at the anvil, the light of the two fires illuminating Kíli’s face as he worked on the blade that lay on the anvil, sweat shone on his face and arms and there was an intensely focused expression on his face, that warned Fíli to talk right away. Instead he simply walked down the last stairs, and sat down on them, watching as Kíli worked. While Fíli never had manifested the flame himself, he had lived between two arcane smiths for so long that he knew without asking when not to interrupt them, when to wait and when to lend aid. And as he watched his brother work, totally lost in the bliss of the flame, he smiled and the decision that weighed so heavily on his heart became a little easier to bear. After many talks, many tears and some time to quietly think Fíli and Fjalaris had come to a decision, the long search for the answer had put a heavy strain on them and their marriage, as it had on the entire family, even the children had eventually begun to sense something was off.

 

When Fíli listened into the bond while he watched Kíli work he could feel the intense focus, the soul being one with the flame and the steel being shaped by Kíli’s will nearly as much as by his hammer. He could almost see the runes and lines shimmering in the steel, pouring from Kíli’s soul into the material, and Kíli welcoming the heat, the strain, the blaze – the pyre that would either kill the spellcrafter or prove the legend of the Phoenix true. Only now he realized that it was two pieces Kíli was working on, taking turns on them, they were interlinked, twin blades.

 

Kíli put both blades into the water barrel, they were far from finished but he would need a red moon to rise above the Mountain to continue working on them. He smiled when he saw Fíli sit on the stairs, waiting patiently. It was something his brother often did, keep to the background until he was needed and often enough he ended up being pushed around by them. No more. “I talked to Thorin this morning,” Kíli said resting the hammer on the anvil. “to make an end to this nonsense, it has gone on long enough. He won’t pester you about it anymore.”

 

“What did you tell him?” Fíli knew that the two had argued in the morning but they had parted on calmer terms than usual after their quarrels, so he had assumed they had worked it out.

 

“I told him to leave you well alone, no more talk of adoptions and stealing your children,” Kíli swiftly cleaned his hands off and approached his brother, squatting down beside him. “ _Fílan,_ this ill-fated idea has brought nothing but strife and pain to us… it is hurting you. Much as you may try to hide it, I can feel how much it does hurt you. I don’t want to lose my brother over some royal nonsense. So I told Thorin to leave you alone. Should I truly get killed soon and Dáin put a toe out of the line, Dwalin has my permission to carve him up into pieces and feed them to the next monster he finds, and if that’s not enough of a lesson for Prince Thorin, he can go next.”

 

“No, Kíli, you didn’t!” Fíli could feel his brother was sincere, when he listened deeper into the bond he could feel _how_ sincere and also that Kíli was truly afraid of losing their bond. “Kíli… no argument will ever bring us apart, how often do I need to tell you that, you great lurdan?”

 

“This… it came too close, Fíli,” Kíli held his gaze. “and this whole royal nonsense was hurting you. So there it is – Thorin will not bring it up again, and if all goes well we can talk about such formalities in many decades when your sons are all grown up. People might get even used to the idea that your family is next in line without any adoptions, it’s not like we are a very traditional Kingdom.”

 

Fíli’s heart seemed to beat in his throat, this was his family – their arguments would drive him up the walls, and they’d be so fierce he sometimes felt like he was trapped between the fire and the anvil and when things seemed worst, they’d come around simply because they cared for him. He grabbed Kíli’s shoulders to hug him, holding him close for a moment. “Fjalaris and I had made a decision last night too,” he said softly. “to allow Anvari’s adoption as… as he is closer to you than to anyone else in the family.”

 

“No, Fíli, you… you can’t say that. Anvari loves you both, he was so happy when we rode back home.” Kíli said. “Don’t… don’t hurt yourself like that, brother.”

 

“It is the truth, Kíli,” Fíli’s voice was calmer now, he felt confident he could talk about this difficult topic with his brother. “Anvari was happy to be home, he was happy to see us again, to have his brothers again but… when he is hurt, or needs advice, or simply wants to share something, he comes to you. It is hard to admit, but in the long time you were on Himring, you became the family he needed and I am glad you did – it spared him a lot of pain and separation.” Seeking Kíli’s dark gaze, he held it steadily. “And… I sensed what happened in the cleansing, it spilled over to me – in some sense you already are linked to him, like a parent.”

 

“That doesn’t make it right, Fíli…” Kíli began to speak, but suddenly broke off, when a searing pain shot through his body. Like a flame eating into his chest it spread, pain… like a whip, like fire… like darkness unending. Trying to breathe steadily Kíli struggled for control, but the pain became too intense swiftly.

 

TRB

 

Minas Morgul

 

A steady stream of chilly air rose through the grates that formed the floor of the cavern like cell and brushed along the naked feet of the prisoner. The stream wasn’t strong enough to be called wind or to be felt, when not stranding right on said grates but it was effective in refreshing the air of the damp place. The rocks that formed the walls were glistening wet in the scarce light that fell from the shaft above, as did the long chains that held the human figure unmoving in its place. There was nothing else in that cell, the rough circle of walls contained nothing else, except for some doors and through them the view on other cells, most of them empty. Or such was what the prisoner told himself, it was easier to believe he was alone in the darkness then to know that there were other broken shapes, lying or hanging in the cells beyond his own. The floor of his own cell was equally covered in shadow, whatever small rays of light made it through the shaft above only touched the prisoner and the chains, painting rectangular patterns on both of them. The patterns, small dark lines as regular as the grates below, were nothing but the shadows of a grate that sat in the lightshaft to prevent any escape. Peering up Boromir was sure that there was more up there in the darkness than he could see. Completely invisible in the darkness were probably watchers he was sure of it. It would be all too easy to place a guard up there, where it would be overlooked, efficient in taking care the prisoners stood no chance whatsoever to escape. Not that he stood any chances either way.

 

Boromir had been not moving for a while now, not because he was unconscious but because he was trying to retain his strength and spare his pained body any further strain. His situation was bad, really bad, and what made it worse: he was well aware of it. There was no way of deceiving himself, no protective illusion to provide the smallest glimpse of hope, not even a chance of reprieve by giving in.

 

His arms were held up by chains that emerged from a blacksteel-construction just below the airshaft and got nearly ripped out of their joints in the process. His upper body was stark naked, smeared in blood from this afternoon’s flogging, and his legs, dressed in something that could be called tatters by now, were not any more able to support him any longer. Long gashes marked them too and blood, dried as well as fresh, marked them too. The only cause why he still appeared to be standing, was due to the chains, that ripped his arms mercilessly up and held him in position. Warm blood was tickling down his neck, he couldn’t even begin to guess from which of the multiple slashes alongside his skull it was flowing. It added to all the other dark traces that littered his body, of which he forbade himself to think. His resistance had him handed over to the Orcs several times already, and he dreaded the next time the interrogator would lose patience and allow the Orc guards a little sport.

 

The very thought made bile rise in Boromir’s throat, while the interrogator’s tortures were brutal, they were administered with a methodical coldness. The Orcs on the other hand… he could not think of it, without the pain returning, along with the fear and the degradation. He closed his eyes and focused, his highly disciplined mind allowed him to drive the pain out of his mind, and he even succeeded in driving out despair too, or came quite close to at least. But in the last few days, some silent, dark moments had occurred where he had to admit to himself that he was not likely to make it out here alone and there was no one in this world likely to help him either. No one had ever escaped from the dungeons of Minas Morgul, that had been a historical truth since the day the Witch King had returned from the North, taking Minas Ithil and making it his new shadowed capital. It was a simple, bitter fact.

 

Boromir leaned his head against his aching arm, he had accepted that he’d die fighting Gondor’s battles, he had learned to live with that and to not let fear of death rule him. _My life for Gondor._ Was what he had sworn, and he’d die fulfilling his oath. Only there was no warrior’s death here, no honor, not even the distant hope that his death would make a difference for somebody in this world. He was alone and when they eventually returned, they were likely to torture him again, until his body could not take it anymore and he would die. What pride he had left focused on the thought that he would neither talk nor beg until he was dead. And this was a very lonely thought too.

 

It was the deafening silence that brought Boromir back from his feverish non-sleep. Usually there were noises in the cell, small things like the trickle of water on the chains, or the pained groans of the prisoner in the next cell, even the change of guards and the constant bickering of the orcs cut through the silence of these dungeons. But now, there was silence – utter silence unbroken by the slightest noise. He raised his head and somehow even his chains did not jangle, his breath too had no sound and he could not hear his own heartbeat, instead a cold began to creep into his cell.

 

It felt like mists rising from a river, or the cold of a winter night creeping through the cracks in the door… only this cold was not as natural, it was different and much darker. Trying to pull himself up, he looked to the door that swung open noiselessly and without the key ever turned in the lock. A black hooded figure emerged under the doorway and approached him. The cold became ice, like icicles freezing on his very back a slow pain began to drip under his skin.

 

A pale hand reached for his face, he tried to get away but there was no escape from the icy touch, no evading the cold hand. Ghostly fingers touched his face and a pain like liquid fire shot through his body. Only that his body’s ache was far minor to the pain surging through his soul, the touch seemed to penetrate his skin, his flesh, reaching right to his unprotected soul and where it touched it brought a darkness… darkness unending. The pain in his soul was beyond words, beyond anything he had ever felt, he barely registered that he was screaming as the darkness crept closer, eating into his mind.

 

A spark rose in the darkness, like a fire rising from a blade of grass to a wildfire. Boromir was not sure the flame would not burn as badly as the icy touch but it was light… a light to drive away the darkness and his soul reached for it. There was pain, but it felt like the shadow burned away from him, giving him a reprieve, like suddenly the touch of the pale hand could not reach him anymore. Holding close to the fire, Boromir saw a figure emerge from the flames, shorter than him, with long dark hair, framing a strange but familiar face.

 

_Boromir?_

 

He was not sure if he truly had heard a voice, or if it was only a presence, somehow knowing, maybe his name had never been spoken truly. He raised his hand, like reaching out towards the figure behind the flames, unsure if this was a trick of the mind or an unlikely spark of hope. Somehow, in a way he did not understand, he knew the face of the other man. But when and how he could not say.

 

Their eyes met and he felt an echo, like a gust of wind touching him from afar. Whatever the message it was wordless, but he understood either way. _You are not alone._ It seemed to say and the darkness around him lifted a little, like the nameless stranger with him was able to wall off the pain, or share it, at least for a while.

 

A part of Boromir’s mind connected with his body, and he felt the pain of his tormented muscles, but there was a distance to it, like he was watching his own pain, not truly experiencing it. And strangely he still felt the stranger’s presence. In the midst of the darkness he was not alone any more. Something moved beyond the impenetrable darkness. It wasn’t the change of the guard high above on the catwalks, they made more noise, when moving. All he heard a soft swish and the sound of silent feet somewhere, anywhere inside the shadows around him. For a fleeting moment he felt something touch him, like another gust of wind, coming out of nowhere, perhaps down the shaft. But Boromir did not care about it. When they came back to torment him, they could. His mind was still walking beside a ghost that rose from flame.

 

How many hours later the broad shouldered man had entered the cell and stood before him, Boromir did not know. “They say you resisted a Nazgûl, impressive I have to admit.” The Easterling observed. “It seems there is more to you than we believed. You surely believe you’re tough. But you will pray for death before I am done with you. You may believe to be strong, I am stronger.”

 

The pain began again and while it did reach Boromir, he was not alone, someone was with him in the darkness, sharing the nameless hours of suffering until a last surge of pain drowned out his conscious mind.

 

TRB

 

Erebor

 

“Is there anything you can do to wake him?” Thorin cast a glare at Óin, who shook his head and shrugged.

 

“I tried everything I could, Thorin. Kíli is resisting the awakening by himself, and if I read the signs right, Fíli is affected as well.” The healer looked to the bed where Kíli was resting after he had been carried up from the forge. Fíli sat beside him, holding onto Kíli’s hand as if their link could somehow strengthen his brother, and maybe it did. The dragonmark on Kíli’s arm was shining in a bright red flame, like it had not done since the days when he had originally received it. Óin also believed that the two black wings inside Kíli’s hands were shining more fiercely. He knew the signs – he had known Kíli had a destiny ever since first seeing the dragonbane seal, but now it seemed the destiny began to call for him.

 

“I think he is coming around,” Fíli said softly. “The pain is leaving and the bond… is settling at least for the moment.”

 

Kíli’s eyes fluttered opened. “Mahal’s anger… I hate Orcs,” he groaned, trying to push himself up, he winced, his muscles echoing a pain that had not been his own.

 

“Orcs?” Óin asked. “There were no Orcs anywhere near you.”

 

“Not me,” Kíli managed to sit and breathe steadily. “I am sorry, Fíli but I… I could not let this slide, I needed to reach for him.”

 

Fíli smiled warmly. “I felt it too, Kíli… Boromir. I dare not believe it, but I felt him too – like before he died. How is this even possible?” He looked at his brother, who had taken the brunt of the pain, though some had reached Fíli as well. “I would have supported you, but for some reason I could not reach you like I usually do.”

 

“The original bond… the dragonseal, it must be what linked us again,” Kíli said, his eyes on the dragon churning in flame on his arm. The link was weak, barely existent and he was not even sure if it was stable or would fade away again soon. But for this short time it had been as deep and intense as it had been when it came into being. “he must have been reborn with the link still somewhere in his soul.”

 

“Reborn?” Thorin asked, he had always wondered about the dragonbane seal, though in the end he had been grateful for its existence had saved his sons lives, when Boromir gave his life to allow them to survive their wounds. “I have never heard of a soul of Men being reborn, it is not a gift given unto the second born.”

 

“It was his secret,” Kíli was glad that Óin withdrew at Thorin’s quick wave, he did not feel well to share the secret beyond his closest family. “that his soul had journeyed to a time and world four decades before his own birth – for loyalty and for friendship, to help protect me from the Bane.”

 

“A life lived backwards…” Thorin whispered awed, the spellsmith at once catching on what Kíli said. “How long have you known?”

 

“Ever since we escaped the Goblin caves – when they… branded me, I shared one of Boromir’s memories – his own captivity in Minas Morgul, which is where is now. The only man to ever escape from the dungeons of Minas Morgul.”

 

“Can he make it?” Thorin asked, his mind racing. If Boromir had joined them, his soul journeying back to Kíli’s youth for friendship or loyalty, their friendship must have begun at some time ahead from now… how had they met? He could not begin to guess, but a part of him whispered that this was the true reason for the black wings in Kíli’s hands, for all the strange things in his life – he had a destiny, one yet untapped and unfulfilled.

 

“He will make it,” Kíli said. “Dwalin said that no man ever escaped from Minas Morgul, but Boromir did it. He had help, and… Thorin, I have to believe he can make it, or I’d have to go…”

 

“No.” Thorin said firmly. “you might do more harm than good, Kíli. Such threads of fate are a delicate thing, and easily unravel. Trust that he can make it out on his own strength, fate will guide your path if you are meant to meet again.” And the name and story of the only man ever escaping Minas Morgul would be easily found out in time. Thorin wanted to know, he needed to know. Strange or no, he owed this warrior a blood-debt for saving Fíli and Kíli, for giving his life to save them. And Durin’s House did always repay its debts one way or another.

 

TRB

 

Minas Morgul

 

“Boromir, you need to wake up.” The voice seemed to echo from far away, and Boromir had a hard time to even blink. Someone had removed the chains and he was sitting on the dungeon floor. A familiar figure knelt by his side.

 

“Irdáin… what in the name of the dead kings are you doing here?” Boromir registered that Irdáin’s face was bloody, gashes marring his body as well, though the Ranger Captain looked very focused and grim.

 

“Getting you out, what else?” Irdáin asked. “Here, drink that. It will not heal you but douse the pain. You will need whatever strength you can muster for the escape.”

 

“My father would not have ordered a rescue,” Boromir took the flask and downed the bitter liquid inside. It tasted as vile as Orc medicine. “no one is crazy enough to sneak into Minas Morgul.”

 

“Your father did not need to order a rescue,” Irdáin helped Boromir up. “we need to hurry. I made it away from the other captives without anyone noticing, but sooner or later even the Orcs will start to count their workers and not mess up their five-times.”

 

“You got in here as a slave?” Boromir did not want to think on what Irdáin must have gone through to reach this city. The draught worked, he did not feel his body, at least not much.

 

“The best way into a prison is as a captive, don’t you think?” Irdáin asked, as he sneaked ahead of him to check if the coast was clear, waving him to follow.

 

Boromir could hear the levity in the words and new that Irdáin was hiding a wealth of pain behind it. The Ranger Captain was a brave man, but facing days as an Orc slave to get into the dread city was more than brave, more than could be asked of any man. They crept through the dungeons, keeping away from any cell as best as they could, outwaiting guards that moved through the hallways.

 

When they reached another long dark hall that once might have been a tunnel connecting the underground parts of Minas Ithil they heard Orc voices and shouts from several entrances behind them. Boromir did not need to understand their words to know that their escape had been discovered. They hastened up the stairs and into the next hallway. Suddenly Irdáin stopped, drawing the sword he had taken off the interrogator’s body.

 

“What are you doing?” Boromir hissed, they stood no chance to fight all the Orcs of Minas Morgul.

 

“Go on, down the hall and to the right is a shaft that leads out of the city. I will distract them for long enough.” Irdáin said firmly, his jaw set in a determined line.

 

“No… you can’t do this, Irdáin… it is not worth it.” Boromir would rather stay and fight. Rather die by the side of the man who had been brave enough to try and rescue him than leave him behind.

 

A strange, haunted look rose in Irdáin’s eyes. “I am dead either way,” he said softly. “I played the Shadow’s game to get as far… and I will pay the price for it. Please… let it not have been in vain.”

 

The Orcs were closing in, their iron boots echoing on the hard stone of the hallway. Boromir did not want to go, but what choice did he have? Irdáin had done all this for him to live; throwing away his life now would be disregarding his sacrifice. “The Light shine upon you and guide your home, Irdáin.” Boromir could not say more, he had to turn and leave and he hated himself for it, as he heard the fighting begin behind him.

 

At the end of the tunnel he truly found a steep shaft that rose steadily towards a pale square far above. The walls of the shaft were slippery and had little to find hold on. Still, not wasting any more time, Boromir grabbed one of the stones and pulled himself up, hos body pressed against the rough walls of the shaft as he began to climb. Down he heard noises, Orc voices echoing through tunnels, steps and the sound of weapons, but he kept climbing. He heard the voice when he stood on the dank ledge, reaching for the next small rock spur above him, it was cold and wet under his fingers, not much to go for but enough to try. He pressed his naked knee to the wall and pushed himself up, finding a small hold for his bare foot. He did not dare look behind, knowing the shaft behind him was steep and long, falling all the way back into the bowels of the dread city.

 

Rise from the Shadow

and overcome your fear

Rise from the chains

a new dawn is near.

 

The voice rose from down there, the voice of the man who was giving his life to allow him this escape. His heart clenched, brave tormented Irdián, fighting a battle that would end in death and he was running. And he could not turn back; Irdáin had gone through all this to free him.

 

Rise from the agony

that torments your soul

Rise from the doubts,

the day can make you whole.

 

He climbed on, his body aching with every movement up the endless dark shaft. Hearing the sounds of blades deep down and the song of the warrior going down with a battle that no one may ever hear of but no one would ever forget. His voice carrying above the clash of steel, Irdáin went down laughing, smiling at death. He did not hesitate longer, climbing faster. Above he could see a bright square, the exit from this hellish place. It was said that no one ever had escaped the dungeons of Minas Morgul, he would prove them wrong.

 

Rise from the prison

bleeding and torn,

Rise above the shadow

and your legend will be born.

 

 

TRB

 

Idrakhán strode through the dark tunnels, he heard the noise of the Orcs fighting but he did not rush there. Losing so many against one man was a lesson the Orcs needed now and then to remember that they were simply tools to be used, nothing more. When he came around the corner, he found what he had expected – a stairwell full of dead Orcs and a dying Gondorian on whom the last Orcs closed in. “Dirak gal zûr!” he barked at the Orcs, commanding them to cease attacking.

 

“But why?” one protested. “We are hungry and that is a fine piece of menflesh which the Nazgûl do not want.” It was one of the big black orcs speaking, who eyed the bleeding enemy greedily.

 

Idrakhan drew his sword and rammed it straight into the Orc’s chest, yanking it clean with one fluid move. “You can eat him,” he said to the other orcs. “if you can get out of my sight in twenty heartbeats.”

 

They scrambled to drag their dying comrade away, hastening to get out of his reach to feast on his flesh. Idrakhan’s lips curled in disgust. Even beasts had more honor. Turning around he knelt down beside the dying Ranger. “You did well, Irdáin… your young Lord is escaping the city as we speak.”

 

Irdáin coughed painfully, his body withering in pain. “Why tell me… Easterling?” he pushed the words out.

 

“Because you fought bravely and you die for what you believe in. I respect that. You did well, now die proud.” Idrakhan reached down in an almost gently gesture and snapped Irdáin’s neck. Some other Orc squad could clean up this hall.

 

 

 

Shakurán surveyed the rocky path that lead up towards the stairs, how many of these minor pathways were there around the city? Too many for his tastes and most only guarded by Orc patrols, many of which had been retracted to the city within the last hour, a measure that he found curious. Not that it was his problem, he was only up here to allow his Drakhár to feed, most of the mighty winged lizards got ill-tempered if kenneled too long. A small noise made him lean over the ledge and peer down the steep rock side below him. There was an old tunnel coming up in that region, or so he had been told by one of the patrol leaders.

 

His eyes widened when he saw a familiar tawny head and half naked person climb out of that hole. It could not be! Shakurán nearly grinned. Three weeks in, and still strong enough to make it out. He had known that this Gondorian was resourceful. It would not take more than mounting his Drakhár and capture him again. Albeit… he had no orders to do so. No one had told him to search for a fled prisoner. And bringing him down to the dungeons had been a sheer _waste._ Retreating from the ledge, Shakurán whistled for the Drakhár, time to go back to the city. He had seen nothing, nor had he been ordered to see something.

 

“I see I can rely on you being smart, brother.” The voice made Shakurán whirl around; he hardly did believe his own eyes. Idrakhán stood by the stairs that led up onto this rock. He had not seen his brother since the trial two years ago and was surprised to see him.

 

“Idra… what are you doing here?” He asked, walking up to him.

 

“Making sure that the plan does not go awry the last moment,” Idrakhán greeted his younger brother with a hug. “and you earned your place in Minas Morgul, congratulations on that. I heard you impressed Lord Mekhalîl, by being your usual stubborn self.”

 

“There was nothing impressive about it,” Shakurán shrugged. “and what plan? I thought Rúkhan’s plan was…”

 

“No one would trust Rukhán to plan his own funeral,” Idrakhán interrupted him. “all that happened had to happen the way it did, brother and you performed admirably, though you might want to outgrow your romanticism a little.” His eyes went to the receding figure of the Gondorian who was about to climb down one of the smaller stairs leading down from the Mountains.

 

“Plan? So all this was planned? His capture? His torment… even his escape?” Shakurán frowned. “Why all that? It is useless.”

 

Idrakhán laughed, his brother was still the straightforward fighter he had always been. “Remember your history, little brother – no captive ever escaped the Shadow unscathed. Even those who seemingly escaped out of their own strength, carried a curse or a shadow with them to the day they died. And true victory lies in letting the enemy believe he has won something while progressing towards the true victory.” He pointed down to the valley. “There he goes, and he will be our problem for many many years in the future, we will fight him and he will resist us. But… the seed has been sown, he carries a trace of shadow in his very soul and on the day we need it, on a day that will come inevitably, he will feel the darkness call out to him and be unable to resist the lure, he will do the Shadow’s own work. And that, brother, is what we will call a victory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs head and sits down* I know I mentioned Boromir’s captivity in Minas Morgul before, but actually writing it… became hard. I do not enjoy writing such things, but it is necessary to put another piece of the greater puzzle into place. 
> 
> The time dwarves take for decisions – being a rather long-lived species, I believe that dwarves when not under the pressure of having to decide immediately take their time to think things through and work out decisions. This is why the discussion on the adoption has not seen a true decision yet.


	30. Blood on cold stones

3011 TA - Erebor

 

Frodo sat on one of the huge stone chairs, his feet drawn in and resting comfortably on the brink of the seat, a book leaning against his legs as he was trying to focus on what was written there. But he found it hard to make any sense of the Sindarin sentences today, he read the words but hardly registered them and when he recalled more than just a few, they made no sense. He sighed and peered over the edge of the book towards the table standing a few paces away in the library. Bilbo was engrossed in his work, scribbling notes and translations into a book as he worked his way through the torn pages of a half-burned manuscript that had rested forgotten in the deeps of some archive for centuries. Frodo knew that if spoken to Bilbo would return to the present at once, he had seen it happen when King Thorin joined Bilbo here, but Frodo did not yet have the courage worked up to actually talk to his Uncle.

 

He sighed, he would need to speak up eventually, he had been thinking about it a lot the last year. And each time he tried to find the right words he felt ungrateful. It was not that he was really unhappy here. Erebor was a wonderful city, fortress or whatever the dwarves chose to call it and he had friends here. The twins were like brothers to him, as were their younger siblings, though it felt strange to mature so much faster than their younger brothers, and it was stranger still that by the time Narvi would be considered a reasonably matured dwarf, Frodo himself would already be well beyond middle-aged. Still… they were his friends and they had been wonderful from the day he had arrived here more than twenty years ago. It did not change the lost feeling deep inside him though. Erebor was a great place, the dwarves had been great friends to Frodo… but he missed something that he had no name for, or at least that had long eluded him.

 

“If you keep staring at me, there will be a hole in the desk sooner or later,” startled Frodo realized that Bilbo was looking back at him, the older Hobbit smiling. “I have a sense when being watched, or some Orcs would have gotten me long ago. What is on your mind, Frodo?”

 

Closing the book, Frodo lowered his legs to sit normally. “Uncle Bilbo… I don’t really know how to say this without sounding ungrateful…” he took a deep breath. “I know Erebor is your home, truly and really, the dwarves have adopted you and you wouldn’t have it any other way. But I… I am not like you, Bilbo. I mean… the dwarves are wonderful, they always were nice to me but…”

 

“You miss the Shire,” Bilbo said with a small smile. “you miss the other Hobbits and you feel out of place now that you are grown up.”

 

“I know I should be more grateful,” Frodo felt bad about saying it so directly. But he was no dwarf, and unlike Bilbo who had integrated into their community with ease, he would never become one.

 

“No,” Bilbo rose and walked up to him. “it is only natural, Frodo. You want to go home, to be with your people again. I’ll talk to Aife, her caravan leaves soon enough, she will bring you safely back to the Shire and I will draw up the papers needed for you to take possession of Bag-End.”

 

“Uncle Bilbo… you can’t. Bag-End is…” Frodo stopped, he had wanted to say _your home_ , but then realized how ridiculous that sounded.

 

Again Bilbo had guessed what he meant. “It has not been my home since I ran out of that door to follow a troop of thirteen dwarves, one Man and one Wizard into an adventure,” he smiled fondly, remembering the confused, flustered Hobbit he had been at the beginning of their journey. “and I will never go back to Bag-End, I tried once and found that it was not my home any more. I am getting old, Frodo and when my time comes, I want to be at my home and to rest where my friends sleep under the stone.”

 

Before Frodo could answer a loud gong rang out through the halls, once, twice and again, three times it echoed down the long hall, the last accompanied by a horrible cracking and shaking of the ground. Bilbo jumped to his feet and grabbed his sword. “Wyrm-Alarm, stay here Frodo.”

 

 

“Frostwyrm! Clear the hall!” Kíli heard Kór’s voice before even reaching the council hall and inwardly he cursed. Kór was from the Reach, if he called the Frostwyrm alarm, it was most certainly no mistake. But how? He leaped over the banister of the upper stairs, landing down in the corridor before the council hall, Ánar, Hlevár and Anvari followed him within moments. A few dwarves, some of the councilors were stumbling out of the open doors, through the gateway Kíli saw the chaos inside.

 

The Skydome – the very vault Smaug had smashed to attack the Reach and that had been meticulously repaired after the retaking of Erebor, was in ruins, the crystal pieces of the former vaulted ceiling were littered all across the council hall and the front paws of a gigantic frostwyrm were perched on the remains of the council table.

 

Kíli saw his brother helping one of the old councilors up to his feet and scramble away from the lashing tail of the beast. Having been in a council session Fíli was only lightly armed, still he covered the old councilor as he tried to escape the snapping maw of the frostwyrm. Drawing his sword and dagger, Kíli threw the shorter blade at the frostwyrm’s head, he had no illusions about the small blade being lethal, but he wanted to make the beast angry. The blade hit the lips just above the teeth as the wyrm snapped for Fíli. Angrily the beast came about and Kíli advanced right into the line of sight. _Come here, wyrm, if you want to eat dwarves… try me._

 

Ducking away from the first bite, Kíli’s blade grazed the underside of the wyrm’s mouth, the wound insignificant, but painful. The frostwyrm’s paws dug deeper into the stone floor as the beast roared angrily. The lashing tail coming close to swiping Fíli off his feet, but Hlevár moved between them and all that Kíli saw was Hlevár’s body hurled up to the ceiling by the pronged tail. They needed to get this beast down swiftly.

 

Jumping on one of the paws still dug deep into the floor, Kíli raced up the scaled leg and jumped on the wyrm’s back. Down in the hall Fíli had reached the next of the councilors who was buried under parts of the broken stone table. Kíli knew his brother would never leave others in such a situation, even if he was hardly armed and wore no armor! Contrary to himself, Fíli did not have the habit to always wear at least chainmail, if not full armor.

 

The wyrm’s back bucked as Anvari’s blade impaled the paw that threatened to smash the trapped councilor and Fíli. The wyrm raged, the tail smashing around, swiping people and rubble out of the way. Kíli had a hard time not to be thrown off the Frostwyrm’s back. He reached the neck and brought his sword down right behind the frostwyrm’s head. Thorin had told him a thousand times how Dari had killed a Frostwyrm like that, and he hoped that his father had not exaggerated the tale. A shiver ran through the wyrm’s body, he bucked one last time, throwing Kíli off his back, before his body shuddered and came to a still, the last shriek nothing more but a rattle in the throat, then the powerful wyrm did not move any more.

 

Kíli struggled to his feet, rushing towards where he could see the others between the rubble. Fíli was kneeling beside Anvari, already stilling a bleeding wound in Anvari’s side, his curt hand gesture informing Kíli that the wound was not dangerous, the armor had prevented severe damage. Kíli jumped over a broken pillar and found Ánar, kneeling beside Hlevár’s mangled body. The younger of the dwarf brothers lay in a twisted position, arms and legs mangled, a long sting rising from his back and his head twisted in an angle that left no doubt about his death.

 

Two more of the barbs from the wyrm’s tail were embedded in Ánar’s side, as Kíli saw, blood was smearing Ánar’s armor and pooling beside his leg. “Ánar,” he knelt down beside the warrior. “we need to get these out of you and still the bleeding before it kills you.” He helped Ánar to sit down against one of the broken pillar’s pieces. Pulling the barbs from Ánar’s side without causing more damage took a steady hand to draw them out evenly. Kíli forced his hands to work as steadily as he did in the forge, for a moment not thinking of Hlevár’s death, all focus on the older of the brothers. “You are going to make it, Ánar, you are strong…” he kept talking to the injured warrior, trying to keep Ánar’s focus on him, to prevent him from drifting away. When the second barb was out, Kíli used his own cloak as a thick makeshift bandage to stem the bleeding. The midnight blue heavy fabric getting dark with the warrior’s blood when he wrapped it around the wound.

 

“Hlevár…” Ánar’s voice was strained, his eyes still on the smashed body of his younger brother.

 

“He saved Fíli’s life,” Kíli knew it sounded cold, colder than others could bear, but he knew Ánar would find a measure of comfort in the fact that his brother’s death had accomplished something, that he had made a difference. Peering to the side he saw Dwalin and other troops beginning to move the wounded. “Ánar, can you hang on just a little longer? I’ll get you to a healer.”

 

Ánar clasped Kíli’s arm with his bloodied hand, his eyes going past him. “Hlevár… he is here… right beside me. He is…” Ánar’s voice broke, his body shaking in one last attempt to force the words out and then he stilled, sagging against Kíli who held him through the last moments, waiting for another breath to come. It took a while for Kíli to fully realize that Ánar too was dead.

 

TRB

 

Minas Tirith

“The Council is finding the latest legislation disquieting to say the least,” The voice of his Uncle, Prince Imrahil, reminded Faramir of the way he made his speeches to the Noble Council, formal, cautious and too silky to be comfortable with. “and while the Council is aware that the legislation for this city is in the hands of the Stewards alone, these new rulings could set a dangerous precedence for other provinces.”

 

“The new laws will allow women to take up the crafts and occupations they may and keep life in this city in a semblance of normality, even as we had to tighten recruitment laws again. Had the Noble Council consented to commit more troops to the Eastern Border, this could have entirely been avoided.” Faramir was walking beside Imrahil through the wide yards of the citadel. “Unfortunately the troops that were committed to Paros are hardly half of what was needed to deal with the Haradrim problem there, not to mention that we need to create five new banners along the border and fill up the losses of the existing troops.”

 

Imrahil arched an eyebrow, for the moment shifting gears from being a Prince of the realm to being an Uncle to the younger man beside him. Albeit being only 28 Faramir had already become a presence to be reckoned with, were the politics of his father, Denethor were concerned and Imrahil kept hearing that the young man was also one of the best, most cunning Rangers of his generation. “All the more I am surprised to find you here, Faramir,” he pointed out. “I had expected to discuss this with your father, while you were supporting Boromir’s valiant effort to keep Paros bridges out of Haradrim hands.”

 

“I wish I could leave without worries to aid my brother,” Faramir cast a cool glance at his Uncle. “unfortunately the situation in this city does not allow me to leave my father at such a time. It is truly sad that I cannot trust those who should support him most, to do so.”

 

“Faramir!” Imrahil hated debates with his brother-in-law, Denethor, but he hated debates with Faramir even more, his nephew was very good at indicating things without saying them directly, always attentive, always watching and the trusted right hand of Denethor’s politics. “These latest recruitments are straining all the provinces and the western provinces keep wondering how many more troops they are to commit to the Eastern border.”

 

“As many as necessary,” Faramir had stopped and turned to Imrahil. “the eastern border is burning, Imrahil,” he decided to forego all appeals to their blood relations. “Mordor is committing more and more troops to battle – we have been at constant war the last ten years. I can count the times that my brother could return to this city on one hand! The Enemy is sending Easterlings against Ithilien and now the Haradrim are encroaching on the bridges of Paros – if we lose the Southern border you might find yourself vassal to the King of Harad before long! And you are making yourself the voice of those who would not commit as many troops as they could to the fight. Do you know what the men from the river provinces, the borderlanders, call you when they think they are alone – traitors.”

 

“This is taking it too far, Faramir.” Imrahil tried to reign in his anger. “the problem is that your father cannot simply order the provinces to send their troops, neither can your brother. If we cannot hold the border, we should consider giving up on Ithilien entirely and retreat beyond the river, which will be easier defended with less fighters.”

 

“Only that this is not just a border war, a skirmish for half a province, it is the darkness rising.” Faramir gave Imrahil a cool stare. “Maybe you have heard it before – I was told that the warning was given you long ago: ‘The East has been broken, disregarded and shunned for nearly an age; they are now awakening, their day is beginning to dawn and they know it. Beware the storm that will carry them to war.’” He could see Imrahil pale a little at these words, so he had heard them too, maybe not believed them in the days prior to the attack at Umbar.

 

“I am astonished your father would ever have mentioned these words,” Imrahil said carefully, knowing that on the subject of Thorongil one always was on dangerous ice with the Steward.

 

“My father rarely disregards wisdom, no matter from whence it hails.” Faramir gave him a curt nod, indicating that their talk was at an end. “I would hope you will use your considerably influence on the Council of Nobles to make them see reason. Were my father forced to lower recruitment age to seventeen and make two fighters per family compulsory, the impact on this land will be harsh.”

 

Striding up the long stairs towards the upper citadel, Faramir tried to not show his anger too clearly. If the Council of Nobles were less stubborn and his own Uncle a little more reasonable, things could be much easier, in such moments he understood very well why his father sometimes became so cold and aloof when dealing with them. At the door to the main citadel he stopped and looked back at the city, under the light of the spring sun it shone like a jewel, white walls and glass windows reflecting the light. Still, Faramir could see the changes – Minas Tirith had always been a citadel, but now it was a capital of war, there was no family in this city that had not one or two sons, husbands or brothers with the troops, there was no family where not a woman was conducting either her husband’s trade or her own, to keep life going on, and there was no family left where not someone wore the black band of mourning for a fallen father, brother, husband or son. And more and more families kept the swords of the fallen against the day their sons reached the age of testing. Up till now the Tower of the Guard had been able to stem the tide along with the border provinces… but against the black flood rising in the East they would need the strength of all Gondor if they should have a chance to hold out. Whether the rest of Gondor liked it or not, they’d have to stand.

 

Faramir turned around and entered the citadel’s cool halls, walking swiftly towards his father’s study. He opened the door, moving soft-footedly like always. Denethor sat at his desk, focused on a document before him. The light falling through the arched window cast bright reflexes on his lean figure, the long once black hair was now liberally streaked with iron grey and while his stature had never regained the strength he had once shown in youth, an indomitable will kept his frailer form from appearing weak. Faramir’s face lit a with a warm smile when he saw his father, absorbed in his duties, possessed with the iron will to carry on, no matter how heavy the burden. He was the true reason why Faramir stayed in the city so often – to support his father’s failing strength here, in the arena of the Council and the warring factions of Gondor, as his brother did the same out at the borders.

 

TRB

 

Erebor

 

Bilbo leaned against the rapidly cooling walls of the broken hall as Dwalin’s soldiers carried two more wounded warriors of the Icehawk’s guard past him. The skydome was a shattered shell and still there were dead bodies and wounded carried out of the hall. “Where did this Frostwyrm come from?” Kór, the Captain of the Icehawk’s had scrambled back to his feet, blood smearing his blond hair, his armor cracked in several places. He had been one of the first to engage the frostwyrm and had been buried under one of the crashing pillars.

 

“The peak, I’d venture to guess.” Dwalin grumbled, his deep voice not truly angry, the War master took the wounds and shock of the younger soldier into account as he answered.

 

“That’s what I mean, Dwalin – we have been killing three times the number of Frostwyrms in the peak every year, than we had before the Fall of the Dragon.” Kór pointed out. “and we certainly never had one as big as this.”

 

“Frostwyrms, Stomewyrms, other beasts and the occasional bout against the taint,” Kíli had spoken up, his voice was rough as he had bedded down the bodies of the two brothers side by side. “the Mountain never did have so many of them, but who knows what Dol Guldur left us with. It is like something is luring them here.”

 

Bilbo’s eyes went to the two corpses, his throat tightening when he recognized Ánar and Hlevár, both dead, fallen against the Frostwyrm. But beyond that he heard Kíli’s words. _It is like something is luring them here._ A thought rose inside him, something that he had read only weeks before in a half-burned manuscript. Could it be… could it be… no it couldn’t.

 

Hastily he left the hall, no one had really noticed him and he hastened back to the library. No one paid him any heed when he hurried to search for a certain manuscript he had worked on. He piled away a dozen others, until he found the stained sheets he had discovered in an ancient stone chest in the archives. Many of them seemed to be elven writings, remaining, burned scripts from destroyed Ost-in-Edhil that the dwarves must have salvaged after the dark armies left the place. This particular writ though dated at least a decade after the fall of Eregion, it was written in a fluid, if sometimes rather complicated hand and Bilbo had needed a long time to decipher what was written there.

 

_…it must be concluded that all of Celebrimbor’s late works might carry such taint, as they were not free of the darkness in their creation. While the minor works may not achieve much more than to bring some minor misfortune to the hapless user, the last great works of Celebrimbor, namely the Seven, the Nine and six unfinished ones, must be considered touched by evil and as such they will draw all dark things to them, their lure strong enough to even bring Orcs from over a hundred miles of wilderness or call a Watcher from the Deeps._

Bilbo’s hands were shaking when he re-read the passage. Could it be? He tried to push the thought away, but an unrelenting logic in the depth of his mind kept asking. If such attacks, such constant fighting had not been known during the rule of Thrór, nor the Rule of Smaug… then what had changed? What had changed that was beyond the dwarves’ control? One small golden ring had, hidden in Bilbo’s possession it had lasted for nearly seven decades inside the Mountain. He remembered Moria – Durin’s Bane waking after he used the Ring… there was no room for coincidence.

 

Heavily he sat down on his chair, trying to think. Could the Ring even be one of Celebrimbor’s late works? The Nine were all spoken for – Men had taken them and entered the service of the Shadow, the six unfinished ones were a myth, a legend that had been debated by many scholars since the fall of Eregion, but no one had ever seen proof that such rings had ever existed.

 

A cold hand touched Bilbo’s heart – the Seven! At least three of them were unaccounted for, lost where no one had ever found them, lost by the dwarves who had worn them last in the deeps of the world. The Deeps of the World… suddenly Bilbo saw the dark caves again, Gollum’s lake, the darkness under the Misty Mountains.

 

“You are a fool. Bilbo Baggins,” he said to himself. “bringing this thing here – so close to your friends.” His chest was tight as he recalled all the fighting, the taint dogging the dwarves’ every steps. What could have been prevented if he had not kept this accursed artifact? Dís’ murder… Anvari’s poisoning… the death of Ánar and Hlevár… Bilbo nearly chocked when he thought of his friends dead in the Sky Hall, the last of a proud family, the last sons of a long line of warriors, fallen to defend Durin’s House.

 

Thorin! The thought startled Bilbo even more. After all the First of the Seven had done to Thorin and his House Bilbo had hidden another of this horrific breed inside Erebor itself. It had to come to an end. For a moment he considered going to Thorin and tell him all there was… but what if the Ring could influence Thorin? What if it exploited Thorin’s old weakness, what if it brought about another spell of gold? No. Bilbo had to find another way, one that was safe, a way that would prevent his friends from being in any further danger.

 

 

Five days later, two hours before dawn Bilbo led Frodo up to his quarters; it was the day Aife’s caravan was scheduled to leave. Frodo’s things were already packed on two ponies. Frodo suppressed a yawn, trying not to sound absolutely tired. “Should I not leave, Bilbo… with all that had happened?” he asked. He had seen Bilbo’s tears the evening after his friends had been killed, and he too had liked the two warriors.

 

“No, Frodo, my lad, you will go home as we discussed.” Bilbo said. “But there are a few things I want you take with you – some simply for your safety, and some for other reasons.” He led Frodo to the chair where he had laid out the mithril chain mail armor and the sword.

 

Frodo’s eyes went wide, he had seen Bilbo wear the very same armor so often it seemed strange to see it just sit there. “Bilbo, no… I can’t take this. You will need it.”

 

Bilbo snorted. “I am old, Frodo – I was no help when the Sky Hall was attacked, though I did not want to admit to it. And you have a long journey ahead of you. I will sleep much better knowing you have these, they saved my life more times than I can count.”

 

Frodo saw the determined way Bilbo’s jaw set and knew that arguing was useless here. If his Uncle made up his mind, he was as stubborn as any dwarf in this mountain would be. Conceding the point he took both and went to the adjacent room to change. He had been taught to use a sword during his time growing up here and he had worn practice armor, but the mithril chain mail was much lighter and seemed to fit nearly perfectly. He pulled his coat over the armor shirt, the leather hiding the silver easily. Still, he felt like an impostor when he returned to the main room and saw his Uncle’s approving glance. “I… I can never thank you for what you did for me, Bilbo.”

 

“Nonsense, my boy.” Bilbo said warmly. “Your father was a good friend and so are you…” his voice trailed off. “Unfortunately I need to ask you to do something for me.”

 

“Sure,” Frodo straightened up, wondering what kind of messages or other task he should take to the Shire. “tell me what I can do.”

 

With a sigh Bilbo took two items from a chest. His hands were shaking when he set down the stone box and the book on the table, he laid them down and then swiftly curled his hands into firsts. “The box holds an artifact, Frodo – I have every reason to believe it is much more dangerous than I guessed. The book contains all my research on the Ring inside the box. I want you to take both with you, and when you are back in the Shire, write a letter for Gandalf. Leave it at the Prancing Pony in Bree. Once Gandalf finds you, give him both, the book and the artifact and ask him for advice. Tell him I removed the item from the Mountain as I… as I fear it may bring danger to the King and his family.”

 

Frodo had never seen his Uncle so pale, so shaken. Gingerly he took both items and packed them into his backpack, stowing them into the deeps of his bag, so they would not get lost. “I will leave the letter right when we pass through Bree and I hope to give them to Gandalf swiftly,” he promised.

 

All Bilbo wanted was to snatch the box back from Frodo… he could not give the Ring away, it was his… he had won it from that nasty creature of the deeps. It was his and his alone! His breath hitched and he forced himself to think of Ánar and Hlevár’s lifeless bodies in the Sky Hall, of Thorin and the curse of the First of the Seven and his fingers curled into fists so tight that his fingernails dug into his palms. “Thank you, Frodo,” he choked the words out. “and now… hurry. Aife hates tarrying.”

 

The time Frodo took to thank him again, to say his goodbyes felt to Bilbo like a rope fraying bit by bit and when the rope was frayed it would drop the chandelier that was his sanity. He barely registered what Frodo was saying at all, only when Frodo was out of the room, hurrying towards Aife and the caravan, Bilbo collapsed against the wall, his strength giving out. His entire body shook, as the tears finally came, tears for his dead friends, tears about not having seen the danger sooner.

 

TRB

 

Minas Tirith

 

Nightfall over Minas Tirith, Faramir saw the sun touch the white stones, coloring them red and gold, like flame… like blood. He rubbed his temples, trying not to see portents where there were none, it was enough what he saw in his dreams if he was not careful. He had no wish to add more to that, the gift of foresight was one of the most powerful the blood of Numenór could bestow on a man, and one hard to bear. Familiar steps approached from the main yard, distracting him for the moment. “Veryan,” Faramir greeted his friend. “forgive me for having you ferretting out the Noble’s latest schemes, I know how much you hate sneaking around.”

 

Like always a smile was his answer, “At least it yielded some results that should allow you and your father to wring some concessions out of them,” Veryan replied, that he’d do whatever Faramir needed of him remained unsaid, but if necessary he even kept civil relations to his family, albeit having little love for most of them. “I am so late because a courier came back from Paros.”

 

“Good news?” Faramir asked, forgetting his foreboding dreams for a moment.

 

“No,” Veryan shook his head, a few stubborn streaks of dark hair falling from his meticulously tied back locks and he pushed them away impatiently. “the message is short and the situation is still undecided.” He handed Faramir the small scroll, it was the original, the Captain of the Tower guard had read it and relayed it to those who needed to know.

 

Faramir unrolled the small scroll a pigeon would have carried all the way to Minas Tirith. It was covered in Boromir’s characteristic scrawl. “ _Encountered Easterling at Harad border – situation unclear – cannot hold against both forces – prepare Riverline for case of breakthrough.”_  It did not need a second reading, the bad news was there in all the clearness. “I need to bring this to my father at once,” Faramir said. “Veryan, find Targon and Hador, inform them that we might have to strengthen the River line swiftly.”

 

Not waiting for an answer Faramir hurried to find his father, finding him in the hall of the citadel. It was one place that always made Faramir tense, the hall of the citadel with its empty throne cast a shadow over them that sometimes made him uneasy. It was also a place that he had frequently seen in his visions, a hall broken… the hall of a King… so many different dreams, none of them especially comforting. He ignored the hall and the shadow, but approached his father to give him the message.

 

Denethor read the scroll once, he never needed to read a document twice to remember its exact wording. He looked up, his face tired and tense, but his grey eyes sharp as always. “We need to know for sure, Faramir, we need to know what will come to pass.”

 

Faramir had known these words would come, he had known before even coming here. “Father… it does strain you too much,” he said. “maybe I should go alone?”

 

“No.” Denethor rose. “I have burdened you enough as it is, Faramir, I will not have you take this risk alone. But we need to know – we need to know ifwe have to reinforce the River or plan on reinforcing the Paros crossing.”

 

Of course Faramir knew his father was right, their knowledge – their advance knowledge of things that would happen, was their greatest advantage in this war so far. Without that knowledge they’d never have been able to hold the border with so little troops, without that knowledge they would never have been able to prevent the enemy from taking Ithilien and overrunning the river. It was an advantage that came at a high price and Faramir saw it daily in his father, the strain was taking a high toll on him. Faramir counted himself lucky that the repercussions he felt were less severe and came more in the shape of his gift of foresight being pushed to the limit, producing dreams and visions at an increasing frequency. “Very well, but after we know for sure, you will rest.” He insisted.

 

A smile lit up Denethor’s hawkish eyes. “You are very sure that your brother will be able to hold the crossing,” if they had to reinforce the riverline neither of them would see much rest.

 

“I have great trust in Boromir – he is Gondor’s best soldier, he has yet come up with a plan each time things looked bad,” Faramir replied, knowing his father while sometimes doubting a situation thought the same as he. Together they walked across the lone yard and to the tower of Kings. The stairs were dusty no longer as servants now cleaned the tower regularly.

 

Father and son did not speak as they ascended the stairs, though Denethor was studying his son silently while they walked. Like his brother leading the armies into war, Faramir bore heavy burdens on his shoulders. Barely 28 years old and he had to handle his own responsibilities in the war on the one side and to support Denethor in Minas Tirith on the other. He would make a superior Steward one day, his mind was sharp and he saw through the guiles of a thousand nobles without even trying. While Boromir was the defender of Gondor, the sword to keep her safe, Faramir was the mind to guide her through the dark times ahead. And luckily the brothers loved each other, there was no contention between them, or Denethor would have worried for the future. Denethor knew he did not love his sons in the very same way – he loved Boromir, the bright son, the warrior, the hero Gondor so desperately needed, and maybe his eldest son was his favorite son in that way, but while he might not love his second son in the same fierce way, it was his youngest who _understood_ him, with whom he shared his secrets, who _knew_ him from the core of his soul and for that Denethor loved him, and what was more he _trusted_ him. Faramir was much closer to him, though their bond was a much quieter one.

 

Together they sat down on the stone chairs atop of the tower, the table with the Palantîr between them. Denethor placing his aging hands beside the orb, while Faramir touched it only with his fingertips, a golden spark rose inside the deep blue and Denethor felt the pull, the horrifying whirl inside the orb, the maelstrom of visions that Faramir navigated so easily.

 

Faramir felt the pull too, he let it reach him, his mind spreading his wings, like an eagle climbing the eye of a hurricane he flew on the wings of the approaching storm, carried down to the bridges of Paros.

 

_The bridges lay in ruin, broken pieces littering the bed of the thin river. Only one of the bays was still standing, and that too had been damaged by catapults, though the catapults the Haradrim had used were now burning in bright flames downriver. Boromir carefully approached the broken bay alone, there was only one Easterling up there as well. There was nothing to declare an armistice between them, or to declare the need for talks, it had never happened between their nations before but now was necessary._

_When Boromir stepped on the broken stone arch, he saw that it was two Easterlings in truth, one fully fit for action, the other injured, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. “Of course you had to shoot me,” he growled, his deep voice thick with the overemphasized vowels and hard consonants of the Empire. “you did not come up with a better idea.”_

_“You were their hostage, shooting you deprived them of their advantage, Shakurán, and now shut up, the arrow won’t kill you, the Great Lord willing.” The healthy Easterling replied._

_“Or if our guest agrees, Idrá,” Shakurán pointed out._

_Idrakhan rose, turning to Boromir, and the Gondorian’s eyes went to the wounded fighter. “Your brother?” Boromir asked, the two looked rather similar and they were no new faces to him either._

_“Yes, he got captured by the Haradrim and I shot him when they tried to use him as a hostage.” Idrakhán replied. “that was shortly before your people appeared on the field.”_

_“Smart decision,” Boromir observed, it was the best way to deal with a hostage situation, once the hostage was dead all bets were off. He had made the same call too, only he had been spared shooting his own brother so far. “I had not expected to find the Empire here, let alone finding you fighting the Haradrim.”_

_Shakurán laughed, his voice was rough, barking, but it was a genuine laugh that echoed with incredulity. Boromir cast him a questioning glance. “I do not see what is so funny about that,” he saw that Idrakhán too was smiling, amusement sparkling in his eyes._

_“I was sent to punish the Haradrim for their reluctance in sending troops to Mordor, you are here to punish the Haradrim for sending troops against Ithilien, my troops are exhausted, I will pull them out and leave the Haradrim to you, Boromir. But when you punish them, you punish them for Mordor as well and that is crazy enough for both of us to laugh.”_

The pictures whirled in front of Faramir’s eye and the pull become stronger, he saw Boromir battle the Haradrim – who were weakened from their fight against the Easterlings and lost the battle, sustaining heavy losses. Strangely the Easterling would keep his word and not attack Boromir’s troops when they were exhausted from the battle, he retreated back to the Mountains of Shadow.

 

A fiery spark began to grow inside the whirlwind and Faramir felt a whisper, a cold, dark whisper reach for him. Focusing on the orb he brought both, his father and himself out of the visions, before the whispering could reach them. Sweat was trickling from his brow when they both found themselves again sitting in the stone chairs of the tower. Neither of them spoke, it was unnecessary; they knew what would be needful to be done by morning, but for now they silently shared the triumph of again knowing where to chart the course for the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D


	31. Epilogue: Say goodbye to your brothers

Summer TA 3018

 

Dwalin could hear the swift clash of blades before he entered the practice hall, the metallic shrieks of the blades coming so fast that their noises blended into each other. He knew of course who was sparring in there, there were only two people who ever practiced in that hall, excepting himself. Shortly after Anvari’s formal adoption Kíli had asked Dwalin to never send someone else to that hall and Dwalin was maybe the only dwarf in all Erebor who knew why. Thus he was careful when he opened the door of the hall, he knew all too well that he was walking in on an unfettered spar with two warriors of sharp reflexes. He was just through the door when both fighters broke off their duel and came about, two blades flying in his direction, hitting the door left and right of his head without harming him. Dwalin grinned, it was a game one could play among few warriors only. He inspected both blades beside his head and yanked them free of the door. “Sloppy, Anvari, your aim was off by a full finger,” he said as he handed the sword back to the young warrior, who had the grace to look chastised, while Kíli took back the sword with a grin.

 

“Want to join us? I could do with a spar against two.” Kíli asked, sheathing the blades for now.

 

“Much as I’d love to remind you that all the fancy elven tricks you learned are nothing against a solid dwarven axe – there is no time for that. A Drakhár has been sighted approaching the Mountain, in broad daylight. That means it is a messenger – an open parley sent from either the Easterling Empire or Mordor itself. Which might be one and the same these days. Thorin wants you two up in the throne hall when they arrive – he said he wants you to look unfriendly.”

 

“What could an Easterling messenger want here?” Kíli asked. “We can hardly have an ambassador of them at court – the ambassador of Gondor would drop from shock.”

 

“If I knew what Jadhur is up to, I’d offer any insights.” Dwalin told him. “He may want to strike a temporary armistice to not having two fronts to fight on, which means he is ready for war.”

 

“I keep forgetting you fought for him in the Sucession,” Kíli said, thoughtfully. “is this Emperor really still the same whom you fought for? It was more than a century ago.”

 

“He was ‘elevatated by the darkness’ or that’s what they call it in the East. Many of their great Emperors have ruled for centuries, and Jadhur took his worship at the Dark Temple very seriously.” Dwalin grumbled, he rarely spoke of his time in the war of the twins, it invoked memories of a life that had little in common with his life now, though he was grateful for those years – they had taught him a lot about the East and their armies.

 

“Let’s find out what they want – I hope it’s not another whispy. Anvari – armory.” Kíli strode from the practice hall to quickly wash and then go to the armory. Dwalin followed them, be it only to assist in case it was necessary. Strictly speaking it was rude to receive any diplomat, no matter how well disliked, in full armor. Yet the Mountain hardly knew Kíli other than in full armor and armed to the teeth, if Fíli was the wisdom and guidance of the Princes, Kíli was the warrior, the defender of the people. And in this case the reception in armor and weapons would make clear the East was not welcome here – it would sent a message of strength, and that was the only tongue the East clearly understood.

 

The Drakhár’s wings flapped before the lizard flew up again, Trakhaine not looking after it as it gained height. Instead his eyes went to the man by his side. “Full circle – I haven’t seen this place in seven decades; they truly built the mightiest fortress of the north here. Do not get flustered, they’ll probably have their war master greet us.”

 

“Dwalin Bloodbane?” Idramar asked as they strode towards the Mountain gate, “if so I do not envy the captain who’ll have to lay siege to this fortress.”

 

Trakhaine laughed, actual mirth echoing in his voice. “I do not envy anyone who gets under his axes. This Mountain is the major obstacle for any conquest of the North. Silent now – they might know our tongue.”

 

To his surprise Trakhaine found that they were greeted by a full guard detail, and not half as rude as he had expected, though it was clear they were not truly welcome. Nevertheless they were allowed through the main gate and escorted to an audience with the King under the Mountain, which was more than he had expected. In many a case of such negotiations things ended with a debate at closed gates. They were led into a vast audience hall underground. Swiftly Trakhaine’s eyes surveyed the people present. Thorin II Oakenshield stood armored in front of his throne, at the age of 250 years his long hair and beard had turned silver, though his imposing figure was unbowed. To his right stood his son, Prince Kíli, he too was in full armor and stood with an equally dark-haired young warrior, probably his son. Trakhaine’s knowledge of the youngest generation of this house was fleeting at best, there were too many of them to tell apart, their spies had said. To King Thorin’s left stood his other son, Prince Fíli, only lightly armored and like the bright mirror image of his darker brother, he too stood with a youth that was fair as he was – another son most likely. The symbolism was not lost on Trakhaine, the King, strength at his right hand, wisdom at his left – a powerful impression indeed. Amongst the assembled court, which was fairly small, he noticed Dwalin Bloodbane and – Wrath of the Shadows! – this dwarf refused to show any signs of aging in spite of being older than his King.

 

“What brings the messengers of the East before the Heart of the Mountain?”

 

The question was the formal opening of protocol amongst dwarves. Trakhaine bowed, if only lightly, as courtesy dictated. “I am Trakhaine, sent as a messenger by the Lord of Darkness whose rule shadows the East.”

 

“And whom do you bring with you?” King Thorin asked, his eyes coolly on Trakhaine. “you mentioned more when you last fled from before the gates of this Mountain.”

 

So he had not forgotten their little dance involving the Woodland Elves. Trakhaine did not answer, Idramar was his escort, a guard in case things got tense.

 

“His name is Idramar, and he is another black legionnaire,” Prince Kíli spoke up, “though he is far from his usual station of petting Durin’s Bane.”

 

Only long experience allowed Trakhaine to keep his mien impassive. So somehow the dwarves had learned of their time in Moria… albeit, there had been a small raid, freeing captive dwarves from the deeps. His eyes strayed to another armored dwarf, standing with the royal family… now, there was a surprise. Should Thirán have been more than just another captive soldier? In any other situation he might have allowed himself a barb into that direction, but not on this errand. “I indeed come from Mordor,” he began again. “for the Great Lord of Barad-Dur extends his hand in friendship to your kind. In his magnanimity he will grant you Rings of Power like he did of old, if you prove worthy of his friendship and share your knowledge on the Halflings and their homeland, for the Great Lord knows that one of them was known to you once.”

 

The silence on the hall was deafening, it did not need an oracle to know by their stony miens that he had taken them by surprise. "As a small token only of your friendship Sauron asks this," Trakhaine went on with exactly the message he had been given, "that you should find this thief and get from him, willing or no, a little ring, the least of rings, that once he stole. It is but a trifle that Sauron fancies, and an earnest of your good will. Find it, and three rings that the Dwarf sires possessed of old shall be returned to you, and the realm of Moria shall be yours for ever. Find only news of the thief, whether he still lives and where, and you shall have great reward and lasting friendship from the Lord. Refuse, and things will not seem so well. Do you refuse?"

 

King Thorin slowly descended the stairs of the throne, only two steps, so he came to stand on nearly eye height with them. Trakhaine could not help it – he had seen many a ruler, many a leader, but this dwarven King commanded a respect by sheer presence like none other he had met. “You shall have my answer,” King Thorin’s voice was deep, rumbling and grim. Before Trakhaine could react, the dwarven King had drawn his sword and with one fluid strike beheaded Idramar raising the bloodied blade before Trakhaine’s eyes. “and this is the only answer I have for your Master and his carrion crows, whenever he and his foul minions raised their heads my people have fought, and we will fight him and his vermin to the end of days. Carry your comrade’s head back to your Lord and tell him that this is the answer of Durin’s folk to his offers.”

 

Stepping back Trakhaine’s eyes hardened. This dwarf king was dangerous and needed to have his rule ended swiftly. “You truly wish to see that army at your gates, King Thorin,” he replied, his voice still steady. “let us see who will bleed in the end.” Without further ado he turned around and marched out of the hall. The answer had been given and it was not the one they might have hoped for.

 

TRB

 

Bilbo’s eyes squinted as he tried to decipher the runes on the manuscript before him. Good gracious, this dwarf scribe had a hand worse than chicken scratches! Not that this was an uncommon issue among dwarves, if someone entered scribe training unable to read and write he was taught and taught a clean hand as well, those who came to training already able to basically write often needed years to reach legibility, if they ever achieved it. Putting aside the pen, Bilbo sat up straight, his back hurting. He was really getting old, his joints were not spry anymore and he would feel the places where his bones had been broken through injury whenever the weather changed. His eyes too would tire more easily and his hair, along with the braid tucked behind his ear was white. He was increasingly glad that many of his former scholarly students would do the digging through the forgotten archives, or would help him to get the heavier tomes to his desk. For all that he was old Bilbo still enjoyed the scholarly work, it kept his mind agile. He smiled, he could work on these lost writings for the rest of his life and would not call it wasted years.

 

“When we adopted you so long ago, I would hardly have believed you would also take to our way of aging, old friend.” A deep voice interrupted his musings.

 

Bilbo’s smile deepened. “Thorin, maybe it is your presence that reminds me how old I am.” He had seen age settle in with his friend rapidly in these few years, sometimes it was disheartening, as he knew that such rapid aging amongst dwarves was the herald of the sleep coming soon.

 

Thorin sat down heavily in his chair opposite of Bilbo’s desk. “The world is truly getting old – an Easterling envoy was here this morning. He asked about Halflings and about you.”

 

“About me?” Bilbo asked startled. “The last time I saw any Easterling it was in Moria, and we tried to evade them best that we could. What would they want from me?”

 

“Their Master wants you,” Thorin’s voice was grim. “and a ring you supposedly stole from him.” His blue eyes held Bilbo’s gaze. “I have known for many years you had an artifact that allowed you to become invisible, but I never deemed it dangerous so far. Do you still have it?”

 

“No,” For the first time Bilbo was truly relieved that he had sent the ring away. “I sent it away with Frodo seven years ago and asked him to bring it to Gandalf. I… I had reason to believe it was much more dangerous than I had guessed at first.”

 

“Did you hear from Frodo since?” Thorin asked, not commenting on the involvement of the Grey Wizard. He had his differences with Tharkûn, but he would agree that his knowledge of many secret things in the world was unsurpassed.

 

“His last letter is from nearly one year ago, he wrote Gandalf had a theory about the artifact and that he would hear from soon but I should not worry.” Bilbo sighed. “If the East is searching for me, I better get moving. Aife should be able to bring me to the Mountains and across…”

 

“Whatever are you talking about?” Thorin asked, getting to his feet.

 

Bilbo straightened up. “I had hoped that sending the ring away would end all danger to the Mountain, Thorin. But it seems… that my presence in itself will bring danger here and I would not want to bring harm to my home. So I will leave.”

 

“Your home,” Thorin’s stern face shone with a smile as he clasped Bilbo’s shoulders. “and you will not leave. I already sent the messenger home carrying the head of his companion. Durin’s folk have never been in pact with the Lord of Mordor, and we never will be.”

 

“But what if they come back to reinforce their demands?” Bilbo well remembered the Easterling at the gates all those years ago. He had said he’d return at the head of an army one day.

 

“They will come with their army either way,” Thorin said. “Dwalin has said it for years and we are prepared for them. And no matter what – I have never given up one of my people to the enemy, and I will not begin with that now.”

 

TRB

 

“Dwalin, how long do you think until we see the first Easterling Banners?” Thorin asked, they stood in the private council hall, together with Fíli, Kíli, Asutri, Anvari and Fjalaris. A map of the East and Wilderland was spread on the main table.

 

“Depends,” Dwalin said. “the messenger needs to get back to the Black Lands and from there the decision goes back to Cymarkhan, the Imperial Capital. If they had their legions already amassed close to borders, like in Dorvinión, we’d have heard of it. So I say, they have been waiting for the outcome of the parley.” Dwalin’s eyes scanned the map. “Order will go from the capital, assuming their Eastern border and the Firelands are quiet, they’ll gather the legions within three weeks, the march across the Empire will be swift, with good roads and no obstacles, they’ll have to cross the Inland Sea, then the road to Dorvinión and from there North along the Redwater and through the wilds – by autumn they’ll be here. Provided the East is ready for war.”

 

“They are more than that, if the latest news from Gondor are correct,” Kíli added, pointing on the map of the south. “Gondor all but lost the Eastern shores and had to retake Osgiliath twice already. I wonder how much more battering their small citadel there can take.”

 

Thorin’s eyes met Kíli’s and they exchanged a glance few could read. When both, Kíli and Fíli had been much younger they had been in Gondor with Thorin, hauling stone ships to the building site in Osgiliath and later forging tools for the workers. They knew the river defenses from a unique perspective. Ever since learning of his brother’s rebirth Kíli had paid attention to the war in the south.

 

“I agree,” Dwalin grumbled. “Mordor had seventy years to rebuild their armies, whip the land into shape and prepare for a great war – there is a point when an army is ready and all additional waiting will not sharpen the edge but dull it. With all the troops skulking around in Dol Guldur again, I’d say they are confident enough for a war on several fronts. Cut off the Northern bastions and crush the South first.”

 

“You are very sure that the South cannot hold, Dwalin,” Kíli observed. “they must know what they are up against.”

 

“Aye, they know it, and they know that doom is coming,” Dwalin pointed on the map. “they have a few good fortresses, namely Minas Tirith, Cair Andros and Dol Amroth, but they stand against an enemy with overwhelming numbers on his side, and their list of allies is very short – they have none except for Rohan. And while brave Rohirrim are entirely useless in Siege Warfare.”

 

“What about others?” Kíli asked. “We could…”

 

“Lad,” Dwalin said gently, reaching for Kíli’s shoulder, “I know Boromir was your friend, your brother… and I agree with you that leaving them all to die is a cruel choice…”

 

“Dwalin – we prepared for this,” Kíli’s eyes shone with a fierce light as he spoke. “we prepared for exactly that for how many decades now? Not just the fortifications, the new battlements but also the troops. We have enough fighters to defend this Mountain for a long time and still have warriors whom we could send South to aid against the Shadow. How often have we discussed this? How long have we planned it? Do you not believe in our plan anymore?”

 

“No, Kíli, I still believe in it, I know the numbers and I know that removing a few thousand from the Mountain can even be an advantage against a Siege,” Dwalin said earnestly. “but we always expected a limited war – this… Kíli, this is it, the great war of our time, the dark storm rising again. Those who march South will march to their doom, to a war the world hasn’t seen since the last alliance. Who… who is to lead them to such a battle?”

 

“I will,” Kíli said firmly. “and don’t try to talk me out of it. Boromir was my friend, my brother, he came back to protect me from the Bane, he gave his life so Fíli and I might live… I would not be standing here, if not for him. I fear no darkness and no doom.”

 

A small but very proud smile shone in Dwalin’s eyes. “And I’d go with you if…”

 

“You will go with him,” Thorin had been silent, watching the exchange between the two. He had made his own mind up a long time ago, supporting their preparations every step along the way. And now that the moment was there he was proud that Kíli did not shy away from the course honor dictated.

 

“Thorin?” Dwalin turned around, looking at his King in surprise. “You’ll need me here once the Siege begins.”

 

Thorin shook his head. “No, Dwalin, we have a dozen good dwarves who can take your place in a Siege. Down there, with all that the East can unleash Kíli will need your cunning and your experience.” _And I will not have you here when my time comes, not when your soul shows no sign of tiredness, when you show no sign of aging, old friend._ Thorin did not say it out loud, but he would not allow Dwalin to follow him into death, even if it meant sending his friend away into a war. Maybe it was the storm of war that had kept Dwalin so unchanged, so vigorous still.

 

“Kíli, you cannot go – it has to be me.” Fíli had stepped up to his brother. “With a Siege coming, and with Thorin… with Thorin’s age, the Mountain will need its Prince right here.”

 

“Which is why you are staying.” Kíli said with a smile, clasping his brother’s shoulders. “because you will follow Thorin when… should the time come and the Mountain will be in the best possible hands with you.”

 

Fíli paled a little but stubbornly met his brother’s eyes. “We have been over that before, _Kithál,_ and I can only tell you again I will not steal your legacy.”

 

“You won’t steal anything,” Kíli’s voice had softened as he spoke to his brother. “because it is I who is leaving – I will formally step down from my place as Crown Prince and sever my ties of succession with Thorin. We are marching to war, _Filán,_ none of us should expect to come back and neither the Mountain nor you must wait for word of us. Promise me, promise me, if it comes to that you will not try to be stupid, but accept the role you should always have had.”

 

“Brother,” Fíli’s voice had become husky, he could feel that Kíli already had decided and he wanted with all his heart to protect his little brother from the fate he was marching towards. “you can’t do this, Kithal, how am I supposed to let you go? To a war from whence you might not return?”

 

Letting go Kíli raised his sword arm, he had removed the bracers earlier on and the dragonmark shone on his arm in the eerie light of the arkenstone, framed by red flame. “From the day I received this, it has charted my path, Fíli, and I always knew in my heart that my time here was limited… that I’d never follow Thorin.”

 

Deep down in his heart Fíli knew it was true, they both had felt it though they had tried to ignore it the closer the day came. Fiercely grabbing Kíli’s wrists Fíli looked at his brother. “I will accept… and you promise me that you will fight as hard as you can. I want my brother to come home – I want to stand on these battlements and see you ride home, and I want to hear the tales of all the ridiculous risks you took, and I want you to bring Boromir along, if you can.”

 

Kíli simply hugged his brother. “You have my word, Fíli.”

 

Thorin watched them, smothering a smile, recalling two much younger dwarves who had chosen to follow him against a dragon. And even as their dragons these days had become bigger and more dangerous, he had to believe that they’d be strong enough to face the storm. They had come this far in spite of all odds and he was very proud of both of them. “So it is decided then,” he said, reminding them that they were not alone. “let it be announced to the Mountain that Kíli will go South to aid those still opposing the Shadow and that Dwalin is gathering the troops who are willing to follow him.” It would be volunteers only, but if Thorin had learned one thing in his long life it was to never underestimate the strength and skill of his people. Kíli’s followers would most likely be a colorful bunch, but they would be what he needed.

 

“Then let me be the first to volunteer,” Thorin was not sure if he should have known or should be surprised when he heard Anvari speak up. At the age of 72, the young warrior was still the quieter one of the twins and rarely spoke up so directly, he had much of his blood-father’s even temper, if not his looks.

 

“Anvari…” Kíli had turned to his adopted son, suddenly a worry on his face that Thorin had never seen there before. The old King knew all too well what Kíli felt, he had felt the same when his young nephews had followed him against the dragon, had felt the same when he had woken from his own injuries to hear that they lay dying. Brave fighters might be able to face death evenly, but leading the youngsters into the same deathly dance was another thing entirely.

 

“You did not really think I went along with the adoption because I wanted to become Prince of the Mountain?” Anvari asked, his blue eyes alight with a fierce will. “I did because I’d follow you to the end of the world, and if you go to Gondor to fight the Shadow, then I will come with you.”

 

“This is no adventure, Anvari,” Kíli said, his voice slightly raised. “this is a full-fledged war, and the Shadow…”

 

“The Shadow will hold nothing back, like the dragon did too.” Anvari raised his chin, not giving ground. “You always said you trusted me to have your back… do you still stand by that?”

 

“He’s got you there, little bro,” Fíli said, he might not show it but he was very proud of Anvari in this moment. “and he’s not an ounce different from us. No – don’t you protest that. We were no better when we went on the Quest, and we came out on the other side, if barely. Would you have stayed at home, even if Thorin had ordered it?”

 

They both knew the answer. “No,” Kíli admitted. “I’d have followed him either way.” He looked back at Anvari and extended a hand. “Very well, young Raven, we go together.”

 

TRB

 

The horse was ready and Faramir saw his brother stash a few last supplies into the saddlebags. In the light of the warm sun the council they had held last night, and the decision they had come to did not seem much wiser than it had in the hours of the dark. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, approaching Boromir.

 

“If you are having prophetic dreams I reserve all worries for a time when you tell me that it is bad,” Boromir replied, turning towards Faramir. “but if I start having them too, I get nervous because it means some strange fate choses to knock really loudly.” His attempt at humor fell flat, he could not hide his concern behind a joke, even a half-serious one. “What choice do we have?” he asked, resignation in his voice. “if the war continues as it has gone the last years we will lose the Riverline within the next ten years, not to mention what happens if Mordor unleashes all the forces they are amassing.”

 

“It is not why you are riding North,” Faramir reminded him. “the dream said nothing of hope, it might well mean another doom coming for us.”

 

“Doom can get in line right behind Minas Morgul and Mordor,” Boromir’s hand that rested on the saddle curled into a fist. “Faramir, you know the situation as well as I do. If my journey North brings a new doom, we are no more doomed than before, and if it brings us hope… it is more than we had before.”

 

Faramir could see his brother was tired. Seven years since the victory at the bridges of Paros and there had hardly been a break or relief for them. Mordor had yet to truly unleash their armies but the constant war at the Eastern border was slowly but surely wearing them down. Sometimes it deemed Faramir a miracle that they were still holding the borderlands. Only he knew it was not a miracle but it was by the strength and dedication of their warriors that they had held out so long and he could see the price in the tiredness lurking in Boromir’s eyes. “Maybe it would be better I went,” he said one last time.

 

“Fari, father needs you here,” Boromir’s eyes went over the empty yard. “without you his rule would slip, you know that. And without your foresight we’d have lost this war years ago. They need you more than they need me.”

 

“That’s not true, and you know it, brother.” Faramir shook his head. They both were needed to somehow keep Gondor together, and his heart was wary of sending Boromir off to follow this dream. Not all portents were signs that ought to be followed. However, in the end Boromir was right: what choice did they have? They were already with their backs to the wall. There were days and long dark nights when Faramir wondered if this was all there would ever be for them – to struggle against the Shadow to the day that their strength ran out and they’d fall, to be another name in the great body count? Would someone come after and even remember them, or would it just be the wind whispering on long broken graves?

 

A strong hand clasped his shoulder. “No such gloomy looks, Faramir, and don’t you even think of dying before I am back.” Boromir’s voice was rough, and Faramir knew his brother did feel not so much different, only that he had the stubborn will to not give in. Not to fate, not to doom, and certainly not to some Easterling captain.

 

“Come back,” Faramir said softly, in the short moments he looked at his brother he felt dread, a notion of death, of loss gnawing at his soul. “hope or no hope, doom or no doom, return to us. We’ll hold this city for the day that you return.”

 

The brothers embraced, their hearts were too full for further words. After they let go, Boromir mounted his horse and rode through the gates of the citadel, just as the horns called for third watch. Watching him ride down the long street that led through the rings of the fortress and then out of the city Faramir’s heart became heavy and just for one moment he believed he saw a dark shadow hover over his brother as the horse sped along on the road North.

 

TRB

 

Early Autumn 3018 TA

 

The gauntlet behind the Icewind gate had seen much commotion the past weeks, Kíli thought as he watched the next column of riders file through the narrow passage that was built to trap those who broke through the heavy gates. Having the army march the longer route – along the grey mountains and then down the Anduin valley was taking additional time for the march, but he agreed with Dwalin that it would ensure they kept away from prying eyes until they could reach one of the ancient dwarf roads. Bifur, was more than sure that any blockage that might cause problems passing the old underground roads could be dealt with swiftly. The old builder had been one of the first to come to Kíli once the announcement had been made. More than glad to have Bifur, Kíli still was touched that he’d leave behind the safety and comforts of Erebor for such an undertaking. When he had voiced that thought Bifur had grinned at him. _I still owe the Orcs a blood debt, laddie._ He had said in old Khuzdul and then turned to the task of organizing all support troops that flocked in by the day.

 

And there had been many who had chosen to follow the call, Kíli had never expected there to be so many. A lot he knew only fleeting, a good number of them people he had helped during one of the many attacks over the years, others were friends. Like Brea who had handed her office to her successor and chosen to join the marching warriors again, her brother Bladvila remaining in Erebor to protect the royal family. There were also a number of menfolk, archers and swordsmen alike, who had joined with the troops.

 

“Thorin needs you,” Dwalin approached Kíli, during the last days, organizing the army Dwalin had gone from the ever attentive war master to downright vigorous and lively again. And when Kíli saw the black steel knuckledusters at the broad paws, he knew Dwalin was welcoming the change to a rough war camp. “some message came, important by the looks of it.”

 

“Then you best come with me,” Kíli said falling into stride beside him. “maybe Dáin actually thought about the offer to combine forces to protect our people.”

 

“And next we’ll hear is that we are allied with Thranduil,” Dwalin grumbled. “I believe it when I see it. Though, Mirkwood is going to have their hands full, if half of what I hear about that Lieutenant in Dol Guldur is true.”

 

“And they knew as long as we that the storm was coming, they must have prepared.” They mounted the stairs that led up to the palace, and past the guardposts before entering the palace gates.

 

Thorin and Fíli awaited them; in the back of the same room Asutri was soothing a Raven who still seemed somewhat vexed to be underground. “Word from Dáin?” Kíli asked upon seeing the bird, though he noticed it was a Grey Raven from the Misty Mountains, not one of the smaller ravens from the Iron Hills.

 

“I wish it was,” Thorin said grimly. “but no, the message is from Elrohir in Rivendell.”

 

Kíli tilted his head, he knew that Elves of course were able to converse with many animals and Elrohir had proven to be able to understand Ravens in the past. But he rarely convinced them to carry messages for him, because like most elves he felt that asking such services of their winged friends should be reserved for the direst of emergencies. “Don’t tell me the Orcs are laying Siege to Rivendell,” Dwalin did not hold with long dancing around the issue.

 

“No,” Thorin said, though the suggestion amused him clearly. “Elrohir writes in the name of his father Lord Elrond and requests that Erebor sent and envoy to Rivendell, as recent events may require a council of the free peoples.”

 

“Such a council was held prior to the last alliance,” Kíli said excitedly. “maybe the Elves are reading the signs as well and are willing to contribute to the defense of Middle Earth as well. If so we need someone competent on the council, to coordinate with us and whomever else might be sending troops.”

 

“You are right,” Thorin tapped on the map on the table. “the Elves of Rivendell are still strong, and Elrohir is certainly not a warrior to sit idle when there is a war to be fought. But if it is about something else entirely, I need someone whom I can trust absolutely to hear whatever worries the elves have to share with the world. And I cannot sent Fíli, not with an Easterling army reported to be crossing the sea of Rhûn.”

 

Kíli knew that while Thorin trusted Elrohir, and by proxy his family, his trust did not extend to the rest of the elven nations. “One of the old companions then?” Kíli suggested. “Bofur or Glóin.”

 

“I need Bofur here, should the Mountain be breached we’ll trap them in more collapsing mines than they can dream off.” Thorin said. “and Glóin would never trust anything an elf has to say. No – I am sending you and Anvari.”

 

“Thorin, what of the troops?” Kíli asked. “we will be marching in two days.”

 

“They will be marching as scheduled, Dwalin will lead them South. If the council of the Elves is truly a council of war, then you will be right where you are needed and send Dwalin all he needs to know by Raven, if not you have a swift horse and will reach Dwalin and the troops swiftly enough. You may not be my heir any longer, but you are still my son and the Elves will listen to what you have to say.”

 

Kíli had to admit what Thorin said made sense and Dwalin would need no help at all to bring the army south. The bald warrior cast him a humorous glance. “Don’t ever think of dragging me back there – they will still only serve greens.” He joked. “If you ride swiftly you might reach us before we are too far south and into Steeldeep roads.”

 

“Alright, have our horses readied, we will ride before the day is out,” Kíli decided, there was little use in tarrying. “Fíli – do you have a moment?”

 

“Of course,” Fíli followed his brother out of the room and through the long halls. “is there something you wanted to talk about?” They both had been busy since the decisions had been made and Fíli still had to get used to suddenly being Thorin’s heir again. With the Mountain gearing for war, all the quiet routine of the Kingdom had been blown away and Erebor had become a whirlwind of activity, giving Fíli more than his hands full.

 

“Not here,” Kíli walked down the long dark stairs leading to the cold spellforge. The fires had not been lit in a while and the ashes had gone cold. If there was any place in Erebor that spelled _Kíli_ , to Fíli’s eyes it was this forge. He saw Kíli go to the stone table that served as a workbench at the far side of the room and take something.

 

When he returned he placed two identical sets of sword and dagger on the cold anvil. Both swords were similar in shape, two edged long blades softly curved in a shape reminiscent of the feathered reed. The hilts of the swords were long and shone brightly white in the dark forge, while the daggers had the same blade shape but black hilts. Only when Fíli stepped closer he recognized the material. “The dragon’s teeth? You made them into sword hilts?” He knew that the teeth must have held the raw power of a fully grown firedrake, shaping them must have taken years.

 

“Aye,” Kíli replied, handing one of the swords to Fíli. “I put all I know into these, brother, every trick I learned, every piece of power someone taught me and all the strength I could give. If… if we have to part ways for who knows how long, I want you to have one of them.”

 

Gently Fíli traced his fingers along the polished hilt, feeling the strange warmth inside the material. He may not be a spellsmith to read the powers in a blade, but it did not need one to see that this was a masterful work. “Do… do they have names?” most of Kíli’s works had, because of the powers wrought into them. When he looked closer he saw that the black hilt of the dagger was a dragon’s claw.

 

“Winterflame,” Kíli’s eyes indicated the blade Fíli held. “and Stormfire,” he indicated his own sword. “I did not name the daggers – daggers and letter openers only get named after being wielded by a Halfling.”

 

Suddenly both brothers laughed and Fíli hugged Kíli. “Thank you, brother. And now you stop fretting, I won’t be in half the danger you will be in.”

 

TRB

 

The light of a windy afternoon found Thorin standing on the battlements of Erebor watching out over the land. The old King leaned on the rough stones, his eyes finding two riders who had just passed through the southern gate and were now riding along the winding road that led towards the Men-i-Naugrim. Mounted on a black and a white horse they were easy to spot and Thorin’s eyes followed their path as they climbed Raven hill. His goodbyes to Kíli had been short and to the point, no sentimentalities and he had not allowed worries or sadness to intrude on that either. But as Thorin saw them ride away, he was glad that he was allowed to at least keep Fíli, if his own son had to spread his wings into the approaching storm.

 

The riders had reached the top of Raven Hill and the rider on the white horse turned around. A gust of wind made his long hair fly in the wind and for a moment Thorin could see a black bow and the white glistening of a sword hilt at his back. Kíli had seen him and raised his hand in goodbye before he turned the horse around and made it speed down the road. Thorin watched both riders until they vanished behind the hills. In his heart he knew they would not meet again in this world.

 

 

_I'm living my life in spiraling gyres_

_that move over things sighing by._

_I never may reach the last of the spires,_

_but still my resolve is to try._

_(Rainer Maria Rilke)_

 

**Finis**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note
> 
> And now, here we are – the Twilight Years have come to an end and the War is beginning. Our heroes have come full circle and are again faced with the forces of Mordor, their roads set into the war of the Ring. When I started to write this story I never expected the story would grow so long and complex. While I am already planning on part IV, I will also admit I dread having to tell all the Ring War again – especially now that so many details have changed, which will demand more changes from canon than I had to deal with in “A distant light”. I am also faced with three very busy weeks ahead of me, so I cannot promise to start part IV before the second half of May. Until then I have to ask your patience, and of course, questions, input, critique and so on are very welcome!
> 
> THANKS to you all who encouraged me and read, shared insights or pointed out flaws in the story. YOU ALL ROCK!
> 
> A special thanks to harrylee94 who has been putting up with my crazy writing speed and winded ideas so selflessly. *big hugs*.
> 
> Valandhir

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of non-profit fan fiction using characters from the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings world, which is trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien.Both Boromir and Kili are characters created and owned by Tolkien INC, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Middle Earth. The story I tell here about Boromir and Kili is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.R.R. Tolkien's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I am grateful to J.R.R. Tolkien for his wonderful stories about Middle Earth, for without his books, my story would not exist.


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